Desert Night
by Rhov
Summary: Sam leaps into a man riding a Harley through the desert with a few million dollars of Mafia money in his duffel bag. Al's more worried about the location: New Mexico, 1995, mere months before the initial Leap!
1. Desert Sunset

_"Night comes to the desert all at once, as if someone turned off the light." - Joyce Carol Oates_

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><p><strong>Desert Night<strong>

a _Quantum Leap_ fanfic

by Rhov

.

Chapter 1

**Desert Sunset**

There was a blue flash, sparking electricity, the distinct sound of the rending of time and separating bodies from their auras, and Doctor Samuel Beckett found he had once again Leaped into a new body.

He entered right in the middle of dismounting a motorcycle. He tripped a little as he adjusted to this new body and reached out to catch himself, only to have his hand smash into a cactus. He cried out and pulled away, yet managed to trip over a rock. Finally, he was on his feet firmly. Not his most graceful entrance, but not his worst. He pulled a couple spines out of his hand. The damage would have been much worse, but he wore leather riding gloves. Finally he was able to look around.

He felt the rumble of a passing semi truck about a hundred paces away. He glanced in that direction first and saw a dark highway. He spotted the trail the Harley Davidson motorcycle's wheels had left in sand and rocks as it pulled off the highway and down to this cactus. All around him stretched the beauty of the American desert. The sky glowed purple with a setting sun. Stars began to twinkle, a few soloists shining for now, but in less than an hour it would be a choir of celestial titillation. Puffs of clouds spotted the sky, flat pink bottoms with towering tops still gleaming white with the sun.

Then he glanced at himself. Leather jacket, riding chaps, leather boots, leather everywhere. He pulled a helmet off and scratched out his hair. Sweaty, dirty, stiff. He leaned over to the motorcycle's side mirror and glanced at the reflection. He had expected a roughened biker with long hair, a fierce beard, and tattoos. The face that greeted him seemed incongruous with the bike and the outfit. It was a lean face, pink with sunburn, cheeks only slightly stubble-darkened from a day of riding, hair in a businessman's trim, although it was darkened with sweat and crushed down against his scalp. His teeth were too white. He has seen sleazy lawyers with smiles like that.

The urbane face was nothing compared to the beauty of the desert sunset. Sam had to smile as he gazed at stretching shadows of cacti, yucca trees, creosote bushes, and stumpy sagebrush dotting the rocky plain that was only interrupted by occasional uprisings of pointy mountains and the silhouettes of flat-topped mesas squatting across the horizon like a restaurant full of tables ready to serve a community of giants. If not for the noise of the highway, it would have made a serene picture.

There was something magical about this place...and familiar.

The honk of a passing semi truck brought Sam out of his revelry. Night would be upon him soon. By how cool it felt and the clouds in the sky, he instinctively knew it was winter. Winter nights in the desert could get dangerously cold, and those clouds hinted at thunderstorms approaching. He wondered why this man pulled off here, in the middle of the wilderness, instead of driving on to the nearest small town for a motel. Perhaps the reason laid in his bags.

He began searching the saddlebags that bulged out from the sides of the Harley. There were changes of clothes, some jerky, dried apple slices, water jugs, and boxes of spare ammunition for a .45 which he suddenly felt at his side hidden under the leather jacket. In the other saddle were more jugs of water and a duffel bag. Sam opened the bag. An evening breeze ruffled the ends of numerous stacks of hundred dollar bills. Sam pulled one stack out and flipped through it.

"This can't be good," he muttered. He put the money back and shut the saddlebag tightly.

There was a rolled-up sleeping bag strapped to the back of the seat, but nothing to tell him more. He checked his jacket pockets. A switchblade, a pack of cigarettes, a lighter, and a pack of gum. Then he reached to his back pocket to check the man's wallet.

"No wallet?" he asked in surprise.

No wallet, no paperwork, nothing at all to identify this person. Only enough food and water to last him for a few days and enough cash to buy a small island.

Maybe he had a reason for avoiding towns, or perhaps he pulled off the road merely to see the sunset. All Sam knew was, despite the sleeping bag, he could not sleep out in the open like this, so close to the highway. There could be snakes, scorpions, roadside thieves, and he was still visible from the highway if he decided to build a fire.

"Sam!"

He jumped at Al's shout and nearly crashed into the cactus again.

"You gotta get out of here, Sam!"

"Al, where...?"

"No time! Get on that bike and ride! Go! Go!"

Al looked frantic and worried. A moment later, Sam heard the explosion of a rifle. He ducked as the cactus next to him splintered. He vaguely saw a set of headlights pull off the highway and bounce toward him. Two more shots just missed him.

Sam wasted no time with questions. He pulled the helmet back on, straddled the Harley, and gunned it back toward the highway, kicking up a trail of dust and sand behind him. He gripped tightly as the bike climbed the slight grade to the main highway and crashed into the right lane hard. He swerved for only a moment, nearly sideswiping an RV, then settled the bike onto the road.

Al appeared behind him, half of his body standing through the rump of the motorcycle as if it was not moving. "That was a close one!"

"Al, what...?"

Before he could asked, he heard an explosion behind him. He looked in the motorcycle's side mirror and saw a ball of flames rise up where the cactus had been.

"Oh, boy!"

**End of Chapter 1**


	2. Jornada del Muerto

_"We travel, some of us forever, to seek other states, other lives, other souls." - Anais Nin_

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><p>Chapter 2<p>

**Jornada Del Muerto**

"Lights."

Sam stopped watching the curling smoke in his rear-view mirror. "What?"

"Lights," Al repeated, sounding much calmer now. "You should turn on your headlights. It's getting dark."

Sam looked around the bike in confusion. Al's holographic hand reached through him and pointed out the switch. Sam flipped it on, and the road ahead became easier to see.

"Al!" He could hardly hear his own voice over the roar of the Harley.

"Just keep driving. You're faster than them."

"Them who? Who was that?"

"Just keep going," Al shouted insistently.

"Trust me, I have no intention of stopping!"

"Good." Al rubbed out the back of his neck, stretching his head one way, then the other, until Sam heard a bone pop. "Man, it's a good thing Ziggy found you so fast. And I was just about to head home. Tina is _not_ going to be happy. Oh well. Okay, let's see, you are..." He checked the handlink. "...Theodore James Nyt, age thirty-four, lawyer based in Las Vegas."

"That explains the teeth," Sam muttered into the wind.

"Nyt had a modestly successful practice through the late '80s around Inglewood, California, but hit a slump after his office was burned in the L.A. Riots of 1992."

"I'm in the '90s?" A bolt of excitement shot through Sam. Any time closer to the "present" always felt like a step closer to home.

Al looked at the handlink and gave it a smack. It whined in complaint. "Uh, yes, the day is February 14th, 1995...ooh, Valentine's Day!" he grinned with a suave wink.

"I have a feeling I won't be eating chocolates," Sam grumbled. "So what am I doing? Who's shooting at me and trying to..._to blow me up_?"

"Let's see. After the riots, Nyt moved his practice to Simi Valley and hooked up with a female lawyer, Elena Ryder, where they set up a joint practice cleverly name Nyt-Ryder." Al chuckled a little at the name.

Sam frowned. "I don't get it."

"You have no sense of culture."

Sam gawked that Al, of all people, was telling him that.

"Elena and Theodore took on some rather high profile cases and mooched their way up into some posh yet dubious circles. He met Peter Milano, the Los Angeles mafia boss, in late 1993. Through the connection, he was introduced to the Cammisano and Civella mafia families. In early 1994, he agreed to work as a lawyer for the Cammisanos. Five months ago, he moved to Las Vegas, and that's where it all went to hell."

"Wait, the Cammisano family? As in 'Willie the Rat' Cammisano?"

"Yeah, don't you just love mafia nicknames," Al said in strained jollity. He looked forcefully down to the handlink. "Nyt helped them through some trials in Las Vegas when the police started cracking down on mafia influence in the city. He...wow, Sam!" Al laughed and took a puff on his cigar. "This guy managed to swindle fifty million dollars from both the Cammisanos _and _the Civellas, had an affair with two capos' wives, knock up a Consigliere's very attractive and, I should add, very _young _daughter, and basically," he laughed nervously, swinging the handlink back to the pursuers, "now they're out to kill you."

"So is that who tried blowing me up? The Cammisanos?"

"No, those were Milano's men."

"So I have three Mafia families after me?" he shouted.

"Well, uh, no," Al admitted, double-checking with Ziggy. "You see, the Cammisanos are well-connected, and Milano basically _owns _the West Coast, and..."

"Al," Sam warned.

"You've got...seven families," he muttered.

The motorcycle swerved as Sam tensed in shock. "Seven!"

"Mostly small families, people wanting to make a good impression with the boss, you know."

Small or large didn't matter to Sam. "Seven Mafia families are on my tail? Wonderful!" he moaned. "So what am I supposed to do, flee the country?"

"Actually, that's exactly what you're in the middle of doing." Al again consulted the glowing board in his hands and gave it a few smacks. "After the first attempted hit in his Vegas penthouse, Theodore Nyt took all the money, hopped on his Harley—nice bike, by the way—and took off as fast as he could down I-40. They caught up with him in Kingman, shot up a fast food joint, but he escaped. Then they caught him again in Gallup, and that's when he decided to head south for the border. We're currently on..."

"Interstate 25," Sam realized. As if to tell him he was right, he drove by a low sign with _I-25_ printed in reflective white-on-blue. Suddenly, the pink-skied desert became familiar. In the fading light, he could even see the ominous silhouette of the Oscura Mountain Range. "Jornada del Muerto. Stallion's Gate."

Al was not too surprised Sam recognized this place. They had driven down this highway many times, going from Albuquerque to Stallion's Gate, Project Quantum Leap's secret facility buried under one of those dark mountains. Al had just driven this route that morning, speeding merrily along in his red "experimental model" car. The desert was slow to change. It looked the same in Al's time as it did in 1995. Al even recalled the scorched cactus. It still grew on the roadside.

But Ziggy warned him, this was a dangerous place for Sam. His situation was dire even without distractions. To wind up in this place, at this time...

Jornada del Muerto: _Journey of the Dead Man_.

"We're just north of Socorro, New Mexico, and heading straight for El Paso. Sam, if you can get to Mexico, Ziggy gives you a ninety-eight percent chance of escaping the Cammisanos."

Sam's mind swirled as it struggled with memories that refused to surface. His Swiss-cheese memory frustrated him at times, but normally he could ignore it and utterly embrace the person he had Leaped into, forgetting about his home as he adjusted to the new world around him. But now...

Stallion's Gate. Jornada del Muerto. The Oscura Mountains.

Home, and yet...a different type of home.

"Socorro," he repeated, forcing his mind on Al's information. "I know the place. New Mexico Tech. I can stop there for the night."

"Uh, no, Ziggy says the Cammisanos and Civellas are already staked out there. And in Las Cruces. And El Paso." His eyebrows shot up. He squinted and read the information Ziggy spewed out too fast for his mouth to keep up. "Boy, Sam, this guy pissed off the wrong people," he chuckled nervously.

"So what should I do?" he shouted. He could still see the smoke in his mirror. He guessed, whoever these people were, they were not far behind him. He pushed the Harley a little faster.

"Right, well, you need to go to Mexico, but Interstate 25 is being watched, so Ziggy thinks you need to..." Al's face drew up. "...take...another...route."

The solution came all-too-quickly. "Highway 380. We could head to Stallion's Gate."

"Sam..." Al sighed, rubbing out the tension in his forehead. This was exactly what Ziggy had worried about.

However, Sam was animate now. Home! Stallion's Gate! They were so close. "They'll let me through. I have authorization..."

"No!" Al shouted, determined to be forceful in this matter. "Dr. Samuel Beckett has authorization, Mr. Theodore Nyt does not. You can't waltz into the White Sands Missile Range. That place is _crawling _with Marines. Marines with big guns. Bigger guns than these Mafia honchos. Sam? Sam, are you even listening to me? Sam!"

**End of Chapter 2**

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><p><em>AN: Project Quantum Leap was located at Stallion's Gate in the White Sands Missile Range, New Mexico, where they detonated the first atomic bomb. Although Peter Milano and many locations I mention really existed in 1995, _beside the historical tidbits, _the events in this story are not intended to portray real occurrences._


	3. A Different Home

_"Travel can be one of the most rewarding forms of introspection." - Lawrence Durrell_

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><p>Chapter 3<p>

**A Different Home**

_New Mexico_

_Stallion's Gate._

_The Trinity Site._

_Project Quantum Leap._

_I remember that, while working on the Project, Al and I often joked about the irony that we were located downwind from Trinity Site, Ground Zero of the world's first atomic detonation. The blast cratered and melted the surrounding white sands, creating a jade-colored radioactive glass known as Trinitite. I once saw samples of Trinitite in a museum._

_It's amazing how Death can create beauty._

_As I rode Theodore Nyt's Harley down I-25, my mind was so distracted that I could hardly think of Mafia bosses or border runs. Around me laid Jornada del Muerto, a desolate expanse, no water, little vegetation, one of the most inhospitable places in the world. It was like Mother Nature smote the land and declared it off limits to Mankind. And Man, in our brash stubbornness, surged forth into that restricted land and built, of all things, the ultimate killing weapon..._

_The atomic bomb, a middle finger in Mother Nature's face._

_Fifty years later, we again went against the natural laws in that same dead-man's land. Project Quantum Leap._

_I remembered a lecture I gave—yes, it must have been around 1995, one of the few times I left the lab that year. There had been a brilliant young student there. I can still picture him, early twenties, long black hair, mocha skin, a deep scar across his clean-shaven cleft chin, a Yucatan accent. He asked me whether time travel was, as he put it, "a middle finger in the face of Father Time." The rest of the auditorium laughed. I think I was the only person there honestly struck by the young man's observation._

_The Manhattan Project was a middle finger in the face of Mother Nature._

_Project Quantum Leap was a middle finger in the face of Father Time._

_It was one of the only times I considered abandoning the Project on the terms of it being against _Nature_, against _Time_, against _God_. I knew I had to organize my thoughts, think rationally, debate both sides of the matter so I could sort the issue out in my head and truly come to terms with it. So I wrote a thesis. Two months later, just before my first Leap, I published it under the title "Wards of Time."_

_It was not met with any huge accolades, but it gave me peace of mind. I had debated the concept of going against some great empowering Time Warden and came out with the conclusion that, as children of both Mother Nature and Father Time, our duty was to learn what our parents had to give. Man learned to control nature. Yes, there were damaging consequences, but Man was making attempts to repair our past destructive habits. Hopefully, we will look back on the twentieth century and see stories of rampant pollution and slash-and-burn deforestation as mere teen angst, growing pains, an embarrassment, harsh lessons to be learned._

_It was inevitable that we children would seek our independence from Father Time as well, test our limits, break our "curfew." Like the Spanish friars who built missions and roads in the middle of this unforgiving land, we were destined to travel the pathways of Time, daring to go where no others thought they could, blazing trails other explorers would one day follow, so that one day we can teach others what we know. Yes, there was bound to be errors along the way, but I concluded my "Wards of Time" thesis optimistically. One day, traveling through time would be as simple as driving down this desert interstate._

_Now here I was, a traveler through time. I was that friar, that trailblazer, that explorer, journeying along my own desolate road, learning as I went, only a few aides to guide me, hoping I reached a place where I could rest. I found that, not only could I observe, I could help. I could set right what once went wrong. I could touch and change the lives of ordinary people. I could make a difference!_

_Okay, so things went "a little caca" at first. Already, I have bumped into people who manipulate time for their own purposes instead of cherishing it and trying to improve mankind's lot. Like all children, we are bound to make a mistake or two. Hopefully, I can one day look back on these years of Leaping and laugh at it all, make notes, improve my methods, grow and mature._

_Now I had come back. February 1995. Project Quantum Leap was on its way, construction nearly completed, three months to Genesis. The present "me" was somewhere not far from here, somewhere out in that restricted desert, buried under a New Mexican mountain, working endless nights with no clue things were about to go "a little caca."_

_I tried to search my Swiss-cheesed memory, but I could not remember anything concrete about Valentine's Day of 1995. Had I gone home? Had I eaten dinner with friends? Had I stayed in my lab, utterly oblivious to Time? I couldn't remember. I still can't even recall who I worked with at Stallion's Gate. Al occasionally mentions names, but the faces escape me. Sometimes, I really wish I could remember!_

_At least this place was familiar, the deepening color of the sky, the distance mountains, the smell of the desert._

_It was home... but a_ different _home._

**End of Chapter 3**_  
><em>


	4. Socorro

_"I had to live in the desert before I could understand the full value of grass in a green ditch." - Ella Maillart_

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><p>Chapter 4<p>

**Socorro**

Soon, the lights of an approaching town lit the sky in ominous orange, like the glow of nuclear fallout searing the horizon. The endless emptiness of sand and creosote gave way to occasional mobile homes, small housing clusters, and sudden greenery. It was nothing lush. It looked poor, pathetic, the forced growth of plants struggling to survive in a world where Humans held the whips of water and chains of fertilizer. Where Man wanted grass, he pointed and commanded "Grow," and the grass had no choice but to obey.

Sam began to fidget. This was not the most comfortable seat, and something else concerned him. "Al, I've got to pull over."

"Huh? What?" Al shook himself a little. Sam glanced over in concern. Was he falling asleep? "Whoa, no Sam, you can't! Those guys are right behind you."

"Yeah, but..." If he said he was already aching, it sounded wussy. Saying he suddenly felt like he hadn't eaten in two days—he now realized why Theodore Nyt had pulled to the side of the road: to get some food—was a horrible excuse to use in this dire situation. As he saw a sign for Road Runner Travel Center, he knew there was the one issue that bothered him the most, something that could be fatal in a desert like this. "I'm almost out of gas. Maybe if I pull off the road, I can lose these guys."

"Not likely," Al grumbled, but he knew the fickleness of motorcycles from his days of riding his '48 Harley Knucklehead. Sweetest cycle ever! If the tank was on fumes, sputtering out in the middle of nowhere did nothing for their escape, and it was a long way to the next town. Reluctantly, he checked the handlink. "All right, we're coming into Socorro. Take the California Street exit. That's the main thoroughfare. There's bound to be a few gas stations along there. Don't pick any with people driving Italian-made cars."

"If I see a Ferrari, I'll stay away," Sam smiled in agreement.

The town was familiar. Sam knew he had been here many times. The way the lights made the desert stars slowly wink out, the grains of sand blown across the streets, a flickering bulb on a motel sign...all so familiar.

One of the first things he saw as he pulled off the interstate and onto California Street was an Exxon Station, but Al made a negative grunt.

"One further down, further down," he insisted. "You don't want them to see you right as they exit."

Sam continued onward. As he drove slowly, paying attention to traffic lights despite Al nervously searching behind his shoulder, the town played out in his mind. He knew if he turned down Bullock Boulevard, it would take him to New Mexico Tech. He could almost picture Old San Miguel Mission, a beautiful pueblo-style building hundreds of years old. When Juan de Oñate explored Jornada del Muerto in 1598, he did not find legendary cities of gold, but white sand, miles upon miles of it. Finally, he and his men came upon Piro Indians, who gave them water and corn. They named that place Nuestra Senora de Perpetuo Socorro, Our Lady of Perpetual Help. Oñate continued on in search of treasure, but the two Franciscan friars with him stayed in the new village and set up what residents of Socorro proudly point out is the oldest Catholic church in the United States.

Father Alfonso Benavidez, known as "The Apostle of Socorro" for his success in converting the Piro Indians, began building a safer mission for the growing congregation, and by 1626, he completed construction. During the Pueblo Revolt of 1680, the mission was abandoned in haste, and the priests buried the Communion Rail and other valuables too heavy to take with them. Explorers still search the area from time to time, hoping to find the buried treasure. According to legend, Apaches raiding the city of Socorro in 1800 suddenly fled in terror at the appearance of a winged man with a shining sword. The story, given by a captured Apache, led to the mission receiving its name: San Miguel de Socorro, after the Archangel Michael.

Sam knew the whole history, as if reading it straight out of a book. He knew what the inside of that church looked like. He thought he knew the father in charge. The name slipped him, but he remembered a face.

He knew this town well!

He drove almost the whole length of the town before finding a Conoco. He puttered in with the needle of his gas gauge threatening to hit the big red E. The station seemed safe. Lights were on, an attendant sat in the small mart watching the news on a tiny television, and the only person also getting gas was a man in a dusty pickup with his lady sitting shotgun.

"Hello-o-o nurse!" Al grinned, already ogling the darkly tanned blonde with blinking earrings and a shiny short jacket against the desert winter night, smacking gum as her boyfriend worked the gas pump. "Sam, check out those gazongas! No way can they be real. Do you think they're real? They're not quite as round as the fake ones but...damn, they know how to grow them in New Mexico!"

Sam rolled his eyes and decidedly did _not_ check out the woman who, to him at least, looked too old to be sporting silicone breasts. He went inside to pay. Even the attendant looked familiar in a vague sort of way.

"Evenin'," the man said, not looking up from the television news. Sam was just another stranger passing through in the night. "Can you believe this? Newt Gingrich isn't running for president! I mean, maybe Bob Dole can pull it off, but, you know, _everyone_ knows Gingrich, for good or bad. Man, someone had better oust Clinton. That man is on a bull charge to a second term. Can't even break this damn baseball strike. Who knows what'll happen if he gets a second term!"

Sam briefly listened to the news broadcast. He had not really paid attention to what went on in the world during the months building and testing Project Quantum Leap. Baseball strike? Election? That was still a ways off, but he supposed the politicians loved getting an early start. But who was Clinton? Was he the President? His memory irked him more than ever, struggling with memories, some clear as a polished diamond, others as scattered as the grains of sand that tracked their way into the gas mart.

"Oh for Christ's sake!" the attendant bellowed. "Not more on the O.J. Simpson trial! I swear, they're turning this into a circus. If this ends up in another Rodney King riot, I'm gonna toss this dang TV out the window."

Sam bought a can of nuts, a bag of cookies, a bottle of Mountain Dew, and a box of anti-inflammatories—his butt was killing him. He thought of other times he had come to this gas station. He recalled a night when Al burst into the lab shouting about how crazy the news was getting about someone named O.J. Simpson. Sam had been too preoccupied programming Ziggy to listen attentively, but the memory was there, vague, hazy, another life.

This was almost like returning home, almost to his own time...but not quite.

He stepped out of the mart and saw Al wandering around the motorcycle, glancing toward the main street, diligently on guard. Now that he could look at Al without turning his head around his shoulder, Sam realized he still wore the same clothes as his last Leap, a red dress shirt with a black triangle pattern, a bolo tie that blinked in turquoise flashes, a red fedora, red shoes tipped with silver, a braided leather belt with a huge blue star for a buckle, and black slacks with white polka dots starting as pinpoints at the thighs and growing to golf balls by the calves until the bottom cuffs were all white. Garish as always!

"I used to use this station to fill up before heading out to Stallion's Gate," Sam shouted out to him with a grin as he came back out to the motorcycle. He felt particularly proud of regaining a few unnecessary memories.

"Is'zat so?" the man with the pickup next to him asked. "Been out there to Trinity Site before, eh?"

"Uh, yeah," Sam answered, stunned once more that no one could see Al. He began putting the groceries in the saddlebags, making sure not to open the one with the duffel of cash. "Piece of history, for good or bad," he added to be friendly. His hand brushed across the box of ammunition and made him involuntarily shiver. He ripped open the box of Motrin, twisted open the bottle of Mountain Dew, and swallowed some down. Then he grabbed a handful of nuts, thinking they were the greatest food he had eaten in weeks.

"Sure is!" the pickup man nodded. "I take the kids there every April when they open the place up. My father fought in World War II, y'know, fighting the Japs, and my uncle worked in Los Alamos. Real proud of those two!"

"That's great," Sam smiled nervously. He hitched the gas nozzle up and opened the Harley's gas cap. Al looked anxious. Not even the balloon-boobed milf in the pickup could distract his intense gaze up California Street. Sam suddenly began to wonder how quickly those mafia men would find him.

The pickup man kept chatting. "Yup, some people got no respect for history. Like you said, for good or bad, Trinity Site's there in the history books. And people come. They keep coming, even now, half a century since it happened. They only open it two days a year, but they'll flock here like cats to a can opener. They come wanting to see that little bit of our nation's history. Why, my Aunt Betty still remembers the day, how a plate hanging on her mother's wall was knocked right off, and they saw the flash of light to the south. No one knew what it was, o' course..."

"Uh, Sam," Al warned, his eyes riveted up the street.

"An' they come here for the mission, of course. Crazy how those Spaniards built that in the middle of nowhere. I love this place, but I was in the Air Force, saw the world, was at the tail end of Vietnam. I know what the jungle is like, all that greenery. Then I come back here, all sand, dry enough to dehydrate a camel. Yet we keep struggling it out. Been thinkin' of moving on, maybe move to Albuquerque, once thought of moving to Dallas, big city life, y'know. But I'd miss this place. It's a good home."

"It's a historical city you've got here, mister," Sam said quickly, hanging the gas nozzle up so fast that a few drops fell out with a strong whiff of petrol. A car had pulled up that looked uncomfortably familiar. Something about the headlights. "Happy Valentine's Day," he added quickly. He pulled his helmet back on just as Al was shouting at him.

"Sam! Watch out!"

Sam wasted no time. He started the motorcycle with a roar that crashed into the arid desert evening like a dropped cymbal in the middle of an aria. He heard shouts and a single gunshot just moments before pulling the Harley away with a squeal. He peeled out of the gas station and raced back toward the interstate.

Al reappeared on the motorcycle's rump. "Sam, I forbid you from stopping and chatting about historic landmarks again, you hear me!"

They heard two more gunshots. Sam crunched down low and sped through a red light. It was late, a holiday, no traffic out.

"Is that them?"

"Is that them!" Al shouted in outrage. "No, that's how strangers greet each other in the middle of the desert, with a shot aimed, not at you, but at the gas pump. Or did you not notice?"

"It's a good thing he missed. That guy had a nice truck." Sam smiled, then chuckled to himself. Memories were returning. Slowly, but they were returning!

"Are you...laughing? Sam, why in the world are you laughing? These guys are shooting at you and you're laughing!"

Sam still grinned huge. "I'm getting my memories back, Al. I remember this town, the Conoco, the attendant. I'm remembering!" He laughed loudly until a bug flew into his mouth. He gagged and coughed hard, pounding his chest. The motorcycle swerved into the oncoming lane for a brief moment before Sam got control, still coughing and rubbing his tongue on the roof of his mouth in disgust.

"I swear, Sam!" Al sighed.

Instead of feeling happy that his friend was benefiting from being so close to home, Al looked deeply worried. He pulled out his handlink and secretively checked something with Ziggy.

If Sam got his memory back...

The odds were not good for his survival. In fact, Ziggy estimated that if Doctor Beckett got all of his memories back, there was an 87% chance that he would try to break into Stallion's Gate and end up dead. As it stood, taking into consideration all memories Doctor Beckett had stated he had (which, granted, was likely only half of what he might actually know) the odds hovered at 35% that he would defy the U.S. Marines defending the missile base and try to break into the Quantum Leap lab on a quest to fix Ziggy and make sure he Leaped back home.

If he attempted this, Ziggy's estimates stood at 84.9% that Sam would end up shot, 15% that he would merely be arrested, and less than 0.1% that he would make it inside, find his current self, convince this day's Doctor Beckett that he was his future-self and now a Leaper, and maybe, doubtfully, fix whatever it was that originally went wrong.

Even Ziggy lamented that, while being fully functional was something the hybrid computer dearly wanted, the odds of failure were too overwhelming. Theodore Nyt's best chance at surviving was to make it to Mexico within twenty-four hours.

Ziggy's suggestion: at all cost, Sam was _not_ to regain more memories.

**End of Chapter 4**

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><p><em>AN: Missions and cathedrals fascinate me. Old San Miguel Mission of Socorro is the oldest Catholic church in the USA. Lots of history. When the TV series said Sam got left at the altar by Donna Eleese at the Old Mission Chapel, I bet they meant here.  
><em>


	5. Mapping Out the Route

_"The World is a book, and those who do not travel read only a page." - Saint Augustine_

* * *

><p>Chapter 5<p>

**Mapping Out the Route**

Sam continued riding the motorcycle down California Street and through the empty streets of Socorro. In a few minutes, he was out of the city and merged back onto the dark interstate.

"Has Ziggy figured out what I'm supposed to do?" Sam shouted over the roar of the engine.

"You get off this road, for one. Come on, Sam," Al goaded. "You're on a Harley. Kick this pig! We need distance."

Sam pushed the bike faster. 70. 80. 90.

"Better. Okay..." Al reached forward. A map was suddenly in his hands. The winds of the speeding bike did not even ruffle the badly folded edges. "We're about," he twisted the map one way, then another, "eight miles from the turnoff for Highway 380. Ziggy says we should turn east..."

"To Stallion's..."

"No!" shouted Al. This was exactly what Ziggy warned about. "Geez Louise, Sam! Get it through that Swiss-cheesed brain of yours! You can't waltz onto a Marine base like White Sands. No, you go to Carrizozo and go south on Highway 54."

A map of the area played out in Sam's mind. He had studied many maps of New Mexico since his days working on the Starbright Project, gone on many trips with Al, Tina, Gooshie, Doctor Verbeena Beeks, and other Project members...he knew this, even if he could not place faces to these names, and names to faces that drifted into his mind. The Very Large Array, Carlsbad Caverns, the petroglyphs, Acoma Pueblo's Sky City, the Gila Cliff Dwellings, El Malpais, the International UFO Museum in Roswell...the memories were hazy, photograph snapshots of locations, but no solid _memory_. It drove him crazy that he knew these things, yet could not remember.

"Highway 54?" Sam muttered. "But that also takes you to El Paso, same as I-25."

"Yes, but from the east!" Al declared victoriously. "Ziggy hopes this will throw off the pursuit. Milano and the Cammisanos are expecting you to come from the west and aim for Arizona. Instead, we'll head to Socorro."

"Another Socorro," Sam mused mirthlessly. "I need twice the _help_ this time around."

"Now, you don't want to cross where there's high population," Al advised with a serious tone. "El Paso to Juarez will take you hours sitting in line. Zaragosa Bridge, lines stretching a quarter mile! You have no ID, no passport, not even a driver's license. Whatever Theodore Nyt was thinking, leaving behind his identity has caused us a distinct problem. So you want to avoid populated areas."

He pushed the map forward through Sam's chest. The motorcycle swerved for a moment as Sam saw lines and place names suddenly emerge out of his abdomen. He _hated_ when Al did things like walking through furniture, let alone moving right through _him_.

"Ziggy calculated U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement statistics for illegal border crossings in 1995 and cross-referenced that to reported occurrences of border-crossing-related deaths..."

"Oh, wonderful!"

"...and came up with the ideal section, just south of Socorro." Then a hand went through his upper chest and a stubby finger pointed to a spot on the map.

"What? There's nothing there," Sam frowned.

"Exactly! Nothing but a dirt road, a barbed-wire fence, and the Rio Grande. The hard part is crossing the river. You'll have to ditch the Harley—such a shame too, it's a nice bike—but if you cross here, then go five miles southwest, you come to a dirt road that will lead you to the village of..." Al suddenly leaned his head completely through Sam's body and squinted at the map.

Sam involuntarily flinched at the visual horror of the neurological hologram's head popping out of his chest like some science fiction movie monstrosity. "Will you stop that?" he snapped.

"Damn, can't read it," Al mumbled, not noticing Sam's discomfort. "Anyway, can't miss it, only town for miles. From there, with that wad of cash, you could buy another bike and ride anywhere you want."

Sam frowned and put his attention back on the road ahead of him. Only occasional semi trucks lit the highway. The motorcycle did not make that bright of a light ahead of it. It almost felt like flying through a nocturnal abyss.

"I don't know about this whole escaping the country thing, Al."

"Sam! Ziggy says if you stay in the United States, you'll end up dead by tomorrow."

Sam thought back to the saddlebag. "You'd think, with a few million dollars, this Nyt guy would have had a better escape planned out, a private jet, tickets to a tropical island. Could he have been heading to something like that?"

"Well," Al admitted with a hesitant pout, "there was a hold on flight tickets to Costa Rica made in Dallas."

"See!"

"But Theodore Nyt was chased away from I-40. And you can't head back."

"Why not? The Mafia expects me to go to El Paso, right? What if...what if I turn right around and head north? They'd take time to regroup. Come on, Al! Isn't that smarter than this whole running-south-to-cross-the-border plan?"

Al looked at him in exasperation and checked the handlink. "No."

"_No?_"

"According to hotel records, Vito Navarra, an associate of the Cammisanos, is waiting in Dallas. Ziggy says they've dispatched _soldati_ through all the major cities south of I-70 and from here clear to Kansas City. These families have connections everywhere, Sam!"

"And who's to say they're not already in Mexico."

Al gave a short, sharp laugh. "On their home turf, the Mexican mafia can run circles around these guys. And if Theodore Nyt is the type of man he seems to be, he'll weasel his way into some rich Don's hacienda."

"All right, all right. Let's...let's get to Carrizozo. Then I need to rest and get some hot coffee. My butt's killing me, and I think I swallowed another bug."

**End of Chapter 5**

* * *

><p><em>AN: Regarding t__he issue of spelling: even within a single source like the Quantum Leap Wiki, the spelling of Donna's last name or Dr. Beeks' first name differs, sometimes within the same page. I picked what was on IMDB, which I took as being an "outsider" view, thus presumably less affected by rabid fans. Eleese or Elesee, Verbena or Verbeena...both are Donna and Dr. Beeks._

_I did tons of research on the best place to illegally cross the U.S./Mexican border, taking into consideration that this had to be by 1995 standards, since border security has tightened considerably since then. I found a few locations that are even now ridiculously easy to cross. Then I considered the ethical (and legal) ramifications of publishing precisely how to do something illegal. So I made it vague. Somewhere southeast of Socorro, Texas...a land with nothing but desert and the Rio Grande separating one country from the other._

_In 1994, Operation Gatekeeper began, a political strategy to minimize the influx of illegal immigrants from Mexico. Today, this plan to make illegally entering the U.S. more physically dangerous costs $2 billion yearly. That sounds like a lot, but estimates are that illegal immigrants cost American taxpayers $100 billion yearly. By February 1995, there were still many holes in the "gate," but in dangerous areas far from urban cities, mostly in the middle of the desert. Many people die of thirst crossing the desert. Yet people chance it, because staying home means death, either by starvation or drug lords. Fleeing to the United States gives them some positive odds. I grew up near the border and knew many illegal aliens. It's still a criminal act, but I tend to sympathize with them. It's a treacherous life even if they survive entering, always looking over their shoulder, unable to get good jobs, thus unable to afford the expensive process to become citizens no matter how desperately they wish to have a green card. Every single illegal alien I know dreams of the day they could finally be legal citizens._

_And I'll stop preaching now. My point is, what Sam it trying to do is illegal and dangerous. Don't try this at home, kids!  
><em>


	6. A Turn Toward Home

_"When the traveler goes alone he gets acquainted with himself." - Liberty Hyde Bailey_

* * *

><p>Chapter 6<p>

**A Turn Toward Home**

Sam's motorcycle finally left I-25 and pulled into the small town of San Antonio, New Mexico. There was absolutely nothing to see at first, just a pull-off leading under the interstate and east on Highway 380. It was not long before he came to a town already asleep. Dirt roads led off to the left and right. There was only one major intersection, not surprisingly called Main Street, without even a traffic light to grace it, only a flashing yellow light.

The small town of San Antonio had such hazy boundaries, it was hard to say how many people actually lived there. Maybe a hundred, but that was being optimistic. It was mostly farmers and people who worked in Socorro or the nearby White Sands Missile Range. For the most part, it was agricultural, lying right on the Rio Grande and watering crops with the river, now of decent size since it was winter.

For a town you can drive through in under a minute, it had a rich history. In 1629, Franciscan friar García de Zúñiga and a Capuchín monk named Antonio de Arteaga planted the first wine grapes, intended for the making of sacramental wine. This was in defiance of Spanish law prohibiting the growing of grapes in the New World. The town was also the birthplace of Conrad Hilton, founder of the Hilton Hotels. His first hotel burned down, but the long, polished, solid wood bar still stood at the Owl Bar and Cafe, the other great claim-to-fame for this tiny town.

Sam looked to his left and saw the Owl Bar. He ate many lunches there, talking with the friendly proprietors. He smiled at the fierce owl that greeted weary travelers with the bold pronouncement of HERE IT IS!

"Best green chili cheeseburgers in the universe," Sam smiled, waiting just a little longer than usual at the flashing yellow light.

"Ooh yeah, and that waitress they had a few years ago, what was her name? Damn, but they do grow them good in New Mexico! You remember those three sexy girls down in Las Cruces...uh, well, maybe that's one memory you shouldn't recall."

"Al!" Sam cried out in disgust.

"Then again, you might not recall it anyway. We were all so drunk," he laughed fondly.

"_Al!_"

"Oh, don't worry, I don't think you ended up with any of them. Bobby LoNigro was there too, and Gooshie. I know the two hot Latinas went for me, and I think Gooshie got the Polish princess. Y'know, I honestly don't know what you did the rest of that night. Or how you and Bobby ended up in jail," he laughed. Sam looked over in amazement. "That's when we came up with the term 'Swiss-cheesed memory,' remember? No, of course you don't remember," he sighed and took a puff on his cigar.

Sam gunned the bike and blasted over Main Street, over some railroad tracks, and into an agricultural area. Sometimes, he wished he could drive fast enough to get away from Al.

The area right around the Rio Grande grew lush and fertile. Sam had to keep his mouth shut as they came across a sudden increase in bugs. But the verdant life did not last long. In less than a minute, Highway 380 was once again a lone ribbon stretching precariously through the barren wasteland. There were occasional dirt roads leading off to a distant light, or dry washbeds making the road sound a little more hollow. Otherwise, there was nothing at all to see. Even the billions of stars up in the heavens were slowly being hidden by gathering puffs of clouds. Sam thought he could smell the dusty aroma of rain in them. He hoped it would not rain on him. Rain in the desert caused flash floods. Plus it would be extra uncomfortable with all this leather.

"Anyone following?" Sam shouted back to Al.

"No. I think we lost them. It'll be easy to keep an eye out for traffic out here. No one drives out this way, not this time of year."

"Some do," Sam muttered to himself.

They knew they had to build Project Quantum Leap somewhere secret, a place where no one would stumble across the facility. What better place than an area no one could survive in? What better place than Jornada del Muerto?

He passed through a canyon of mesas. It was too dark to see anything, but Sam tried to look through the night, out into the endless darkness, to see if he could make out the glowing mountain.

February 1995.

The Project was almost done. By this time, Sam was holding discussions with Ziggy, fine tuning the programming while the Acceleration Chamber and Waiting Room were being finished. He and Al were starting to feel the pressure to complete the construction before funding was cut.

There were a few flashes of memories. The day they installed the new vending machines after Al broke them...again. _Man of La Mancha_ blasting as he sat behind a console with his fingers through his hair in frustration. Sitting in the incomplete Acceleration Chamber, fretting over losing everything when he was so close. Verbeena Beeks coming up to him with a package, the published thesis called _Wards of Time_.

What strange memories!

"What were we doing at this time?" he asked Al solemnly.

"What? You mean us, on this day, back in 1995?"

_Back in! _To Sam, this was a mere three months before his first Leap. To Al...what year was it to Al? He knew his time between Leaps were sometimes spontaneous, sometimes months between. What seemed to Sam like an instantaneous transition was, to Al, a long and uncertain waiting period.

"Honestly, I don't remember," Al shrugged. "Oh, wait! That year, Tina and I went to Santa Fe for a _lovely_ night of pleasure," he purred, getting dreamy-eyed already, "but I have no clue what you did."

"I wonder," Sam mused, staring out at the desert. "Could I meet with myself here?"

"Sam," Al warned again with a discouraging look, but there was a streak of fear through it as well. "Your task is to stay alive, not risk an M16 in your back by sneaking onto a military complex."

"I know, but still," Sam said dreamily. "I wish I could..."

* * *

><p><em>I wish I could...what?<em>

_Warn myself? Run a quick diagnostic on Ziggy? Prevent all that has happened over these years of Leaping?_

_Sometimes, a part of me wants exactly that. I wish I could have had things ready just a little bit earlier. We were so close! Then that letter, that threat, all funding about to be pulled. Everything was built and programmed. We were in the phase of working out the bugs, ironing out wrinkles._

_So close! I couldn't allow all that work to go to waste._

_What if I could warn myself to start looking into secondary funding? What if I could warn myself to work just a little faster?_

_What if the Project had worked perfectly the first time?_

_Then I think of all the lives I've touched. I think of everyone I've helped, people I've saved. I think of my brother. Stopping my first Leap was the same as condemning Tom to death all over again. Could I, in good conscious, undo what I've already done?_

_No!_

_It'd be like killing all those people I saved, including Tom. Maybe another would want his life back, no matter the cost. But for me, the cost was too high...and it was personal!_

_I knew I had to be determined. So close to Stallion's Gate! So close to warning myself about the future! But I could not do it. I couldn't change my life so drastically, and change all of history with it._

_Then I saw it. Not the glow—no, it was not running at full power yet—but the mountain. I knew it by sight, knew the shape of the peak, even by nothing more than a silhouette in the darkness. I had looked out toward it on so many trips. Somewhere in there, ten levels down, was _me_, sitting at a monitor with cold turkey._

_Cold turkey?_

_It was another snapshot memory. A cold turkey dinner. A bottle of wine. Some homemade cookies. Someone had brought it in for me, someone concerned that I was still there, someone chiding me for not eating dinner again, someone..._

_Who?_

_Tina? No, Al said he took her to Santa Fe._

_Gooshie? I can't picture the bad-breathed little man baking cookies._

_Doctor Beeks? Maybe another programmer or engineer? It was like my mind blanked out that part._

_It didn't matter. The meal had been hot, but I was so wrapped up in a program I was installing, I only picked at the food, slowly, unconsciously nibbling while listening to John Lennon and being thankful for "Shaved Fish."_

Give Peace a Chance, Cold Turkey, Instant Karma, Power to the People, Mother, Woman Is the Nigger of the World.

_By the time the album got to _Imagine_, I had figured out the problem. It seemed to work that way. I always had to get through all the social turmoil before I got to my epiphany. Then frantic typing, trying to get the idea out of my head before it faded away._

Whatever Gets You Thru the Night _(it was like John Lennon had put that song next on the album specifically to taunt me on nights like this),_ Mind Games _(another tease!)_, #9 Dream, Happy Xmas (War Is Over).

_Then the compact disc went back to the beginning._

Give Peace a Chance...

**End of Chapter 6**

* * *

><p><em>AN: I don't own _Quantum Leap_ or the music of John Lennon. Song titles aren't protected under copyright law. Titles can, however, be trademarked. __To the best of my knowledge, the songs in _Shaved Fish _aren't trademarked. If I'm in error, and if the Lennon estate wants me to remove all references to_ Shaved Fish_, I will comply._

_The bit about Sam listening to music to solve his problems was inspired by _Quantum Leap: Prelude_ by Ashley McConnell. In the novel, Sam sings along to Simon and Garfunkel's _Sound of Silence_. By the time he gets to a certain part of the song, he solves the problem. Many references to pre-Genesis time are based on _Prelude_. The TV series says Sam listened to _Man of La Mancha_ continuously through the making of the Project, but I imagine his music collection was eclectic._


	7. His Addiction

_"Without music, life is a journey through a desert." - Pat Conroy_

* * *

><p>Chapter 7<p>

**His Addiction**

"_Cold Turkey_."

"What?" asked Al.

"_Cold Turkey_. John Lennon. Tonight, Valentine's Day, 1995. I was working and listening to _Cold Turkey_. And I was eating a cold turkey dinner. Suddenly, I thought of the irony."

"That you were eating cold turkey while listening to _Cold Turkey_? A coincidence, but not ironic."

"No. See, the song is about addiction, right?" Sam said excitedly. "I realized, Project Quantum Leap had become my addiction. I knew I needed to drag myself away from it and go home, but it was like going cold turkey."

"That's...not really ironic either," muttered Al. "That's called an epiphany. Are you sure you're feeling okay?"

"Never better," Sam grinned, proud of his cherished new memory, fuzzy though it was. "Maybe this Leap will help me to remember more about my past."

Al said nothing, but he watched Sam suspiciously. It was one of the closest times his memories had crept toward Donna Eleese. She had come down to the facility that night and brought a plate of the turkey dinner she cooked for Valentine's Day, growing cold as Sam obsessed over his work.

She did not complain. She never did. She knew her husband had to get the last bits of programming in, time was growing short, and government bigwigs were getting impatient to see results. She brought the dinner and gave him a warning she knew he would not heed. Still, as his wife and a woman who worried about him, she had to give it anyway. Then she went back home alone. When Sam had his mind set on doing something, there was not much anyone could do to stop him. Donna knew this and still loved him. It baffled Al how that woman put up with him, and continued to wait for him after all these years of Leaping.

Sam had eaten the dinner mindlessly while he worked out the problem. Finally, he dragged himself away from the lab and went home to their ranch at Stallion Springs just in time to have dessert with Donna. The next day, he was back in the Control Room chatting with Ziggy when Al arrived, moaning with a hangover. Sam had "that look." Al had commented on it, purely to see Sam blush and run off to a computer terminal. Ziggy naively commented that Doctor Beckett's pheromone levels were unusually high. That was enough for Al to feel relieved that Donna had not only forgiven her husband for working late on Valentine's Day, but she still gave him a very special "present."

Did Sam remember any of that? By the innocent look on his face, Al assumed Sam still could not recall her. If he did, he would have that anguished self-loathing expression Al had seen with dread when they switched places and Sam suddenly got all of his memories back.

He could remember the dinner, but not the wife who cooked it! It frustrated Al at times. Keeping such a secret from his best friend was painful, but Donna often calmly and humbly assured him, it was for the best. Sam had to be able to act freely, and if he realized he was married, he might not be able to do what was necessary.

That woman was a saint! If Sam ever found his way back home again, Al would make sure he _never_ forgot that!

"That's the turnoff," Sam pointed.

Twelve miles east of the small town of San Antonio, a person comes across the first paved road leading off the highway with a small sign, 525 in a white circle upon a black square, with an arrow pointing to the right.

Highway 525.

WSMR P Route 7.

Stallion Gate.

The road to the Trinity Site.

The road to Project Quantum Leap.

It was inconspicuous, barely visible in the night. Five miles south of Highway 380 was Stallion Range Center. Seventeen miles past that, Trinity Site, where the world's first atomic bomb was detonated.

Sam's motorcycle slowed down. His eyes ventured off the road and into that impenetrable darkness. "I wonder how many times I've been down that road," he mused softly.

Al kept quiet. Sam's memory had already gotten uncomfortably close. It reminded Al just how dangerous of an area they were in. Screw running into Mafia hit men! If they were not careful, they might meet Donna on this road, heading either to the facility to bring the turkey dinner or traveling back to their little desert ranch. If Sam remembered her, Ziggy warned that it might unlock all of his memories. Such a neural overload would cause unpredictable behavior, especially regarding Project Quantum Leap.

Al realized Sam was right; that Project was his addiction. Al had to be his Serax.

"I wish..." Sam began, but his voice trailed off.

Al wondered, if Sam did try to break into the White Sands Missile Range, how exactly was he supposed to stop him? The most he could do was shout at him.

To Al's relief, Sam let the motorcycle creep past the turnoff. He watched it wistfully even when he had to look over his shoulder, but his face was firm. So close! Yet he had decided not to use time travel for personal gain. And really, what could he do? If he stopped the first Leap, he doomed all those lives he saved.

The Harley sped back up. The pointy mountain in the distance grew smaller behind them. Al let out a sigh that turned into a yawn. He felt so tired, but he could not leave yet. Every few minutes, Ziggy shouted at him so loudly, he was shocked Sam _couldn't_ hear that annoying hybrid computer.

"_Don't you dare fall asleep, Admiral Calavicci! This location is sensitive_," Ziggy warned.

"I know, I know!" he shouted back. Damn that annoying voice! Ziggy could sound sultry at times, and other times the tone reminded Al of his second wife. Or was it his third?

"Know what?" Sam shouted back to him.

"Oh, nothing. Ziggy doesn't want me to fall asleep."

"Rough night?"

"You Leaped into Mr. Nyt no more than five minutes after Leaping out of that comic artist from Quebec. Remember, we were working on that case for at least eighteen hours straight. Now we're back, and I haven't slept in over a day." He afforded a loud yawn. "I'm getting too old to pull an all-nighter!"

"_As Tina Would say...suck it up!_"

He really hated Ziggy right now.

"_Admiral, if Doctor Beckett is left alone, the odds that he will head straight for Stallion's Gate_..."

"I know the odds, Ziggy!" yelled Al.

"Odds for what?" Sam shouted over the motorcycle's engine.

Al simply did not answer. He knew Sam too well. Ziggy might give odds, but Sam was not the sort to do something suicidal just to possibly change his own fate. Bless him, but Sam was almost _too_ noble. Even if this crooked lawyer did not deserve a second chance, Sam would do his damnedest to save him.

He trusted Sam, even if Ziggy didn't!

That was when they saw headlights in the far distance. It was east of them, not coming from Interstate-25, but still...

"Al? They couldn't know where I am, right? They couldn't have driven this way." Even Sam sounded uncertain but cautious. "There's nothing east of here, not for miles. It's just...a motorist, right?"

"I don't know, Sam."

Al's face crunched up. True, the odds of it being someone from the Mafia were next to zero. Al had not seen headlights behind them, and on the dark, flat desert, a following car would be visible for miles. Even if the people tailing them saw the Harley turn onto Hwy 380 and called in backup, there was no way a car from Carrizozo could have reached here so soon, even with the speed of an Italian car.

Still, there were other people Al did not want to come across who _might_ be on this road.

"Here, right here!" he shouted at Sam. "Pull off the road and kill your lights."

Sam swerved off the highway, shut down the headlights, and puttered into the small ghost town of Carthage, nothing more than some empty buildings of stone and adobe, abandoned for decades, a speck of a memory of civilization lost amidst the merciless desert. Carthage was the first coal mine in New Mexico, and it became the busiest coal mining camp in the state by 1889. The Santa Fe Railroad once ran nearby, but government issues caused the railroad to relocate, the mine closed, only to reopen in 1903. At one point, it boasted a population of one thousand people. Then the Great Depression hit, the country began going to gas and electric energy, and by 1950 the Carthage Fuel and Coal Company closed the mines...again, and for a final time. That precarious town quickly became an empty shell, abandoned, forgotten, a casualty of progress.

Al looked fondly at the site. In his time, Carthage had already been destroyed, torn apart by the government's so-called "desert restoration project." It peeved the workers of the Project to no end that the historic mining town that had withstood sandstorms, floods, coal dust explosions, and a nearby nuclear blast was finally demolished by a government tractor. It was nice to see the old town again.

Sam drove slowly to a well-hidden area behind a crumbling adobe building and turned off his engine. His ears rang with the sudden silence, and it took a while to adjust to the gentle noises of night insects. He glanced around, but the clouds hid the moon. There was no way to see what laid around him.

The car coming toward them slowed down. Although Sam crouched out of sight, Al freely walked forward, squinting into the darkness. The moon peeked out from the scuttling clouds to light the evening with silver, just long enough for Al to recognize the vehicle.

"Damn," he muttered.

"_Too late!_" Ziggy perked in, sounding amused rather than horrified.

**End of Chapter 7**

* * *

><p><em>AN: You might notice that I called the Highway 525 turnoff "Stallion Gate." This is that geographical location's proper name. The series persistently called it "Stallion's Gate" (with a possessive apostrophe). Some fans theorize that Stallion Gate is the "publicly known" entrance to White Sands, while Stallion's Gate is a nearby top secret entrance. Conspiracy theories aside, I think Mr. Bellisario simply spelled it wrong and refused to correct it. Maybe no one pointed out the error until too late. Who knows! I personally believe Stallion's Gate is Stallion Gate, northern entrance to White Sands Missile Range. For this one reference, with Sam standing right in front of it, I'm using the proper name. All other references will have the possessive apostrophe._

_"That comic artist from Quebec" references one of my favorite webcomic artists, Yan 'Kern' Gagné, creator of "Drowtales." I tossed that in for my own laughs. Thinking Sam Beckett inspired "Drowtales" is hilarious to me. Imagining Sam with a thick French Canadian accent makes me giggle!_

_Again, I don't own _Quantum Leap_ or works by John Lennon. Mentioning song titles is legal.  
><em>


	8. Close Encounters of the Wifely Kind

_"The leaves of memory seemed to make_  
><em>A mournful rustling in the dark."<em>  
><em> - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow<em>

* * *

><p>Chapter 8<p>

**Close Encounters of the Wifely Kind****  
><strong>

Donna!

Perhaps the second-worst person to meet in this desert, besides having Sam bump into himself.

"_Well, this should be interesting_," Ziggy mused, truly seeming to take delight at seeing how Al would get Sam out of this predicament. Sometimes Al swore that Sam programmed Ziggy to be a sadist.

"Oh crapola! Sam, stay low," Al ordered, waving his hands down as if to stuff Sam into a hole. "Whatever you do, don't make a sound!"

The car pulled over, crunching slowly over the dirt road, and crept into the center of the tiny ghost town. It was impossible to see the driver in the darkness. With the engine still growling, the driver's side door opened and a person stepped out. As she walked close to the headlights, Donna's face was momentarily lit up. She did not wear the trendy clothes of the day, but something simple while still being elegant. That was how Donna always appeared, lovely without trying hard. She wore a form-fitting rose pink dress with hearts cut out along the bust hem and a shimmering white belt that twinkled as the headlights gleamed on it.

Al cringed to think how nice she looked, her hair done up and makeup on. She had obviously dressed up for this holiday of love, hoping to impress her beloved husband, only to have him obsessed with work once again. Instead of getting peeved and screaming at him, here she was, about to deliver the turkey dinner she had spent hours preparing. Al sometimes wished he had a wife as loyal and understanding as Donna Eleese-Beckett. Maybe then he would not be searching for wife number six...or was it seven?

Her eyes searched the darkness. "Hello?" she called out in genuine concern. "Is someone out there? I saw your lights swerve off the road. I was concerned there might be a problem, and it's a long way to town. Are you all right? Are you hurt? Do you need help? I could call a tow truck."

Sam lifted his head at the sound of her voice. He was well hidden behind the adobe building, completely out of view and unable to see her; however, Al saw the struggle contorting his face, a wavering recognition he fought to understand. His mouth faintly moved, as if desperate to call out to her, but his brain failed him once more. He did not understand why his instinct said she was safe.

"Hello?" Donna called out again, and she waited worriedly for a reply. Then she hummed to herself and climbed back into the car. The wheels churned on sand, and the car went back up onto the highway heading west.

Al sighed heavily. "That was close."

Sam began to walk the bike forward. "She...she sounded...familiar."

"You think so?" Al waved his hand in dismissal. "Probably a shop owner somewhere or...or some bar wench." He cringed at that. Bar wench? Seriously? Donna Eleese was one of the kindest, most brilliant women he knew, and he called her _a bar wench_?

Ziggy called out to him in a singsong taunt. "_I'm telling Do-o-onna-a-a!_"

Knowing Ziggy, that lousy overgrown calculator would gloat on what Al just said. Donna was going to kill him!

Sam let the close encounter slide. "Check the highway. Are we clear?"

Al gladly let the matter go, and with a push of his handlink he centered himself on the highway. Donna's tail lights were fading in the west. He waited a couple minutes for her to get far enough away. Then Al saw her turn to the south, down Highway 525, on her way to Stallion's Gate. He waited just long enough for her to disappear behind some hills. All was dark once again.

"Yeah, okay, it's clear now," he called back.

Sam brought out the bike and turned the lights on, frightening a spiny lizard. The Harley started up, crashing through the silence of the desert. Without a backward glance, Sam continued heading east.

Al was once again on the back of the bike. His eyes looked to the west, but his focus was south of the main road. He saw Donna's car once again, faint yellow lights out in the desert. With nothing else around, it was easy to see. She stopped at what Al knew was the White Sands Missile Range guard shack, paused only a moment probably to show her ID badge, then the car was off again.

The turkey dinner would reach Sam still warm.

In ten minutes, they were in what was known as Bingham. It could not really be called a town, with no post office, no gas station, no restaurants or motels, only Blanchard Rock Shop, the owner, her horse, and her two dogs. The store proudly claimed to be "three miles from the middle of nowhere," whatever that meant. Blanchard was one of the best rock shops around. They even gave tours.

Al remembered that Sam and Donna had loved going on the tours of the Blanchard Mining District. Him? A rock was a rock. Only the sparkling ones mattered.

Then it was miles of nothing.

For Al, this had to be one of the most boring Leaps ever. He knew he needed to watch Sam's back. That sudden explosion just off the interstate had scared the bejebbers out of him. The route Ziggy gave was dangerous. The odds of Sam spinning the bike around and going right back to Stallion's Gate were dropping, but still uncomfortably high. With Donna around, that made things twice as bad. Still, he had been up for eighteen hours with Sam on the last Leap, and now this! He rubbed his weary eyes.

He desperately needed another cigar!

The road slowly turned south and went between some mountains. Al was getting dizzy from the scenery flying by without the sensation of moving, but he did not dare leave Sam, not yet. Not until they were far, far away from Stallion's Gate.

He checked Ziggy. The odds were still against them. History had, as far as he could tell, been changed. Theodore Nyt would have died back on I-25 in the explosion they just barely avoided. Now, Ziggy didn't know. In the new time line, Mr. Nyt simply vanished. Did he make it to Mexico on this route? Was he caught and killed, never to be found? Ziggy simply didn't know. He disappeared from the Las Vegas penthouse and was never seen again.

Sam hummed some song. His helmet bopped to the beat occasionally. At least he was not thinking about the mysterious woman back in the ghost town. Sam was adept at keeping his mind busy on long drives. Al was ready to lie down and take a nap. The last Leap ended, and Al had just walked out of the Imaging Chamber when Ziggy insisted he had to return _now! _Rarely were Sam's Leaps so quick. It wore Al out. He thought it had to be about two in the morning back home. The night sky here was of no help. A glaring sun might have kept him alert. The somnolent world around him only convinced him that he should be in bed with Tina now.

Finally, there was a faint glow ahead. They crossed over a lava bed, The Valley of Fires. Miles upon miles of black rock. As if the land wasn't dark enough! Or dead enough! The city of Carrizozo was a few miles ahead of them

"Carrizozo," Sam mused. "Land of Reed-Like Grass. I wonder how much grass actually grows out here." It was impossible to tell in this darkness.

Al yawned, and like a contagion, Sam yawned too.

"Anyone following us?" asked Sam.

"Nope," Al said laconically. "Are you pulling over?"

"I know you say I shouldn't, but I need to. I'm hungry, sore, and tired. At the least, I need a soft booth and a hot cup of coffee."

"Sounds good," Al nodded. He opened the door to the Imaging Chamber. It floated just behind the tail of the bike. "I need a nap. Don't do anything stupid while I'm gone. And whatever you do, don't head back! Go southwest on Highway 54. It's called Central Avenue here. You _must _get going before sunrise, Sam, okay?"

"Okay," he smiled complacently.

"Scout's honor?"

Sam laughed a little. "Scout's honor."

"Good. I'll be back in the morning."

With one last yawn, Al stepped out and the bright white door shut. Sam was temporarily blinded by the dark night. The desert felt suddenly larger and more ominous without Al there with him.

"Cold turkey," San began to sing to himself, "has got me on the run."

**End of Chapter 8**

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><p><em>AN: As is obvious by now, this follows the changed timeline where Sam and Donna are married. There is fan debate if Sam actually remembers this change at all. He obviously does when he Leaps back home ("The Leap Back"), but returning home also messed up his memories of the Leaps he already did, a reverse magnaflux. Would he remember post-Leap changes? My guess is his memory would be like Al's, who remembers history both ways. Al clearly remembers how things originally went, but at the same time he remembers how they are now...simultaneously! The novels love to explore this. I believe Sam would suffer the same dual-memory...if he ever got his memory back.  
><em>

_The line at the end is from "Cold Turkey" by John Lennon. I do not hold the rights this song. I merely want to introduce the music of 1975 to the readers of today who might otherwise never be exposed to it._


	9. A Soft Booth and a Hot Cup of Coffee

_"Nothing so liberalizes a man and expands the kindly instincts that nature put in him as travel and contact with many kinds of people." - Mark Twain__  
><em>

* * *

><p>Chapter 9<p>

**A Soft Booth and a Hot Cup of Coffee**

Once Sam entered the town of Carrizozo, he immediately went to where he could rest. He knew the place. He had been there before. Another hazy memory...

Carrizozo sat at the crossroads of Highway 380, connecting San Antonio to Roswell; and Highway 54, linking Santa Rosa to El Paso. Sam slowed down for the small, dusty town of about a thousand residents and turned onto Highway 54. He saw a diner on the corner called Four Winds Restaurant. Although it was not terribly late, many places in this town closed early, but here the fluttering neon sign reading OPEN still shined.

Sam pulled into a parking space, turned off the Harley, and entered the restaurant cautiously. No Italians in suits. That was a plus. A teen barely old enough to work took Sam to a seat. He set his helmet to the side and looked around. Only one other person was in the restaurant, a woman with mocha skin, black hair cut below her ears, tight acid-washed jeans, and a t-shirt from a Selena concert. Realizing she was watching him, Sam uneasily smiled and nodded back, then buried his face into the menu.

In dive diners like this, there was always one safe bet.

"I'll have the cheeseburger, fries, and a cup of coffee."

"Wouldja like to try our green chili cheeseburger?" the waiter asked.

"Sure, why not," Sam smiled. New Mexico prided itself on its green chilis. It was almost an insult to order a cheeseburger _without_ that mildly spicy topping.

The coffee tasted old, but Sam hardly cared. Just a minute later, the waiter returned to refilled the downed mug.

"Nice bike." The words had a heavy Mexican accent to them.

Sam looked up from guzzling his second coffee cup and found the woman's dark eyes on him. "Oh, uh, thanks."

She came over and sat at his booth. "I never come up to strangers," she confessed softly, although they were the only ones there, "but I owned the same model in college. It's still sitting in my parents' garage. It's a sweet ride."

He never would have pegged her for a biker chick. "It kills my rear," he admitted.

She chortled with tightly closed lips. "_Sí_, mine too. I got a custom seat, made all the difference. My brother could set you up. He has a shop in El Paso, does good work."

"Well, I'm heading that way but...I won't have time."

"Passing through, eh?" she nodded, realizing most people in a dive diner like this were on road trips. "Where're you heading?"

"Mexico," he said automatically.

"Is that right?" she smiled with a deviously playful twinkle to her dark eyes. "_¿Sabe usted hablar la lengua_ _española?_" Do you speak the Spanish language?_  
><em>

"_Lo hablo fluido._" I speak fluently. Sam suddenly chuckled. Somewhere in his addled brain, he spoke Spanish. "What's your name? Or should I continued to speak Spanish to prove my claim?"

"Araceli de la Rosa. _¿Y usted?_" And you?

Sam realized that giving the name of this person he was in might be a bad idea. What if someone in the town was searching for Theodore Nyt? He had to keep a low profile. "Samuel Beckett. Call me Sam."

"_Waiting for Godot_."

An eyebrow shot up with intrigue. "Impressive that you recognize my namesake."

"I pulled a double major in Literature and Mechanics. I figured if I couldn't become a teacher, I could fix cars in my brother's shop."

They spent a while together, relaxing as they talked about the area. Memories surged in Sam's mind. Araceli was shocked at how much he knew of the State and the attractions around them.

"You grew up here?" she asked.

"Nope. Dairy farm in Indiana. But I lived here...for a time," he added, feeling sad and homesick.

The food finally arrived. Sam was so busy talking, he did not realize that the service was so slow for just the two of them.

"You gonna eat?" he asked, nibbling the fries.

She waved aside the offer. "I'm fine. Just coffee. Well, maybe one fry," she decided, hesitantly taking one from his platter. "They smell good."

"Eat up! You look starved."

Sam bit into his green chili cheeseburger, froze, and moaned in gustatory ecstasy. His stomach had been gnawing on him since he first leaped in. The trail snacks he nibbled in Socorro did little to ease the pang. Now...there was nothing quite like a freshly ground patty, local green chilis, and cheese melted right into the meat.

"Wow! I thought the Owl had good GCCBs. This burger is great!" He took another huge bit. "Of course, it could just be because I haven't eaten since...I'm honestly not sure when." He saw her staring at the juices dripping from the burger and swallowing hard. "You sure you're not hungry?"

She pouted in shame for staring at him. She delicately took one more french fry. "Just coffee," she muttered.

"So, if you don't mind me asking, do you live around here, or are you passing through, too?"

"Well...I _was_ passing through," she pouted, swirling the fry into some ketchup. "I was on my way from Santa Rosa to visit family in Socorro, Texas, for my mama's birthday. Then my truck broke down. I have no money to repair it. Honestly," she blushed, "I was living out of that damn truck for a few weeks. Lost my job, got evicted, had to sell the last of my stuff for food and gas. I was planning on moving in with my parents. I spent my last dollar buying this coffee."

Sad stories from beautiful women could be considered one of Sam's weaknesses. He snapped his fingers at the waiter, who had nothing better to do. "What can you make up fast?"

The teen perked up at the opportunity for more business. "I can have the carne asada in under ten minutes."

"Get that, and a milkshake to split."

"What?" Araceli cried out. "Look, _señor_, I don't even know you. I told you my sob story, but you don't have to take pity on me."

Sam gave her a disarmingly genteel smile. "It's one meal, less than ten dollars. Isn't that good compensation for the pleasure of some company after a long drive all alone?"

She pouted, but she muttered a thank you. "I want you to know, I would never accept, except I haven't eaten since breakfast."

They sat in silence for a while. Sam kindly did not eat in front of her and urged her to nibble on fries while her food cooked. Soon the waiter brought out a heaping platter of carne asada and a glass filled with the milkshake, with a metal cup with the extras. Sam gave Araceli the glass and used a long-handled spoon to scoop out the shake in the cup.

She had to admit, "When you said 'split a shake,' I thought you wanted some corny '50s one-glass-two-straws thing."

He shook his head. "Unsanitary and socially awkward even for teens, let alone adults like us." That made her laugh. He hardly seemed the type to flirt with her just to murder her later.

Sam saw a flash of white to the side and Al stepped out looking half asleep. "I am really not in the mood, Sam, but Ziggy wanted me to tell you...well, _hola, señorita_!" he grinned at the lady. "Ain't she got a fine set of gazongas! Sam, I don't know how you do it."

Sam wiped his mouth. "Excuse me a moment." He left to the restroom, yet it took Al a while to stop staring at Araceli and follow him.

Sam stood in front of a urinal and looked in the mirror. The helmet head he had scratched out gave his hair a devilishly disheveled look. That too-white lawyer's smile was charming. No wonder Araceli felt she could trust him, and no wonder Theodore Nyt had weaseled his way into the confidence of such powerful Mafia families.

"What did Ziggy want?" he whispered.

"Huh? Oh, yeah." Al was still thinking of _gazongas_. "Just that this town is safe. We ran a check on all hotel records for New Mexico and western Texas and cross-referenced that to known Mafia. Carrizozo checked out utterly clean."

"Utterly?"

"As in there are only four rooms being rented in the entire city. Two of those are locals wanting Valentine's Night away from the kids, one is some piece of scum from Denver who, ironically enough, is also heading to Mexico to avoid the law—Ziggy insisted he's not involved with the Mafia, so no problems for us—and the fourth is a family of four on vacation from Oregon. Ziggy said, if you want to spend the night, this is the place to do it. And of course, he wakes _me_ up to tell _you_ that it's okay to sleep." He ended his complaint with a loud yawn.

Sam finished up and went back out. Araceli had eaten most of her plate already. Sam chuckled at the half-starved lady and sat back down.

"So," he began as he picked up the messy burger, "sorry if I'm prying again, but do you have someone coming to rescue you?"

She sighed, slouched her cheek onto her fist, and looked out the window at the sleepy town. "I called my brother, but he works early tomorrow and has to stay late for a shipment. He'll be pulling an eight-hour-turnaround as it is, let alone driving three hours each way to pick me up. He said maybe he can get here by Friday night. My sister is eight months pregnant and shouldn't drive out this far. My mama doesn't drive, and my papa had a stroke last year, still doesn't have his license. That's another reason I planned to move in with them, to help around the house and do the driving. Now I don't even have a truck to sleep in. I have no idea what I'm going to do about a hotel, let alone repairing the truck and getting gas." She laughed and shook her head. "And here I am, saying all this to a total stranger. I'm really pathetic!"

Al had followed Sam instead of going back. "Sleeping in her truck?" the hologram shouted in outrage. "Sam, what's her name?"

"Araceli."

She looked up curiously.

Al punched something into his handlink, and his face paled. "Oh God, Sam! That bastard also making a border run? He never made it to Mexico. He was caught here in Carrizozo...after raping and murdering a woman named Araceli de la Rosa."

Sam tried hard not to react, but the shock was great. Araceli saw the anguish in his face.

"Is something wrong?" she asked.

"Sam," Al cried out. "You have a hundred million dollars on you. You can spare fifty bucks to get her a motel at least. Come on, where's that chivalrous streak?"

That was precisely what Sam intended to do. The problem was, how to do it without seeming weird or perverted. "Nothing in this town is open twenty-four hours, not this time of year. Where do you plan on sleeping?"

She hummed and thought about it. "I've been wondering that since I got here. I walked around town this afternoon, looking to see if there was a place for someone without money to crash for the night. There's a Catholic church nearby. I could stay there and pray, but not to sleep; I wouldn't feel right. Maybe Evergreen Cemetery..."

"No!" Al yelled. "That's where they find her body in the morning."

"I'm sorry I asked," Sam began, "but now that I know, I can't let you do that. It's February. The desert at this elevation can get very cold at night, and there are storm clouds moving in."

"The news said it shouldn't rain."

"Let me get you a room."

She pulled back, glaring skeptically.

"I know, that's unconventional, a total stranger saying this," he admitted, "but I can't let a woman sleep out in the open in a strange town in winter, not when I can pay. I'm a lawyer, I have the money, don't worry about that."

"A lawyer, huh?" she muttered. "Still, if you try to get me into your hotel room..."

"No! No way," he shouted. "I'll put you up in the Rainbow Inn, and I'll go to the Chaparral Motel. Different motels, see? And if I so much as knock on your door, you're allowed to shoot first and ask questions later."

She sighed and looked out the window. The thick clouds covered all the stars. The wind had begun to pick up, tossing an empty paper cup down the sidewalk. "I'll think on it. Try to see it from my point of view. This is...rather creepy."

"I totally understand," he assured. "Honestly, do you think I could kidnap you on a motorcycle?"

She chuckled quietly. "Not with a stock seat like that ass-killer you've got. I guess, in a motel, I can lock the door on you, and I'll have a phone to call the police. A shower would be nice, too," she admitted, looking at her Selena shirt in disgust. "I guess I wouldn't mind sticking it to a lawyer for once," she chuckled. "But I do have a gun on me, so anything questionable and I aim for your groin."

"Ouch!" Al cringed. "Feisty one."

"I'll head over there now. Can you walk there safely?" He gave a glance to Al as well.

"Of course I can," she said proudly.

"Ziggy says that should be fine. It's just across the street."

"Oh, and you can stay at the Rainbow Inn as well," Araceli suggested. "It's minimally cleaner." She rose up. "That coffee hit me. I'll meet you at the inn. Just have the desk clerk hold onto the keys until I arrive."

"I'll pay up here," he agreed, and called for the check.

"Well, hopefully you actually do get some sleep," Al pouted, completely jealous by his friend's constant luck with ladies. "I'm off for some shut-eye. Don't do anything stupid that'll make Ziggy wake me up again." The white door slid open, and Al stepped out with a loud yawn.

Sam realized Araceli had left her purse on the booth. While she was in the bathroom, he slipped ten one-hundred dollar bills into the purse, then paid for their meals with another hundred. That gave him some smaller bills.

He left to rent the motel room. Driving to the Rainbow Inn was hardly worth it, since it was right across the street. Sam just walked the bike over the two lanes of Highway 54. It was a small place left over from the heyday of Route 66, white walls with pale blue trim and a retro rainbow wave painted on the side. He listened to the desk clerk list his options, including some free-standing cottages in the back. Sam thought that might be nice for Araceli, a little splurge the lady deserved.

But there was a problem.

While Sam was beginning to panic, Araceli walked in. She took one look at Sam, patting his pockets and double checking his coat, and sighed.

"No money?" she asked, not too surprised.

"No, I already paid, it's...well, I'll be darned, but it seems I lost my driver's license. They need proof of ID."

"No ID and you're planning to..." She stopped as she realized how insane that sounded. Going to Mexico...on a motorcycle...with no driver's license or Visa?

He saw by her skeptical look, Araceli was beginning to piece together his dilemma. Not good! "I'll...uh...have to call the office tomorrow, see if I left it there," Sam grinned sheepishly. "Hopefully it didn't fall out of my pocket on the road."

She sighed and let the matter go. Maybe he simply lost his wallet. A bad seat and bad pants, mixed with no wallet chain, could spell one lost wallet somewhere on the highway. But then how did he still have money? It wasn't her business! "You're a lucky bastard," she grumbled. She pulled out her own ID, trying to look peeved. "The cottage?" she shouted.

"It...uh...looked roomy." He rubbed the back of his neck. "If you have to stay in town until Friday, best to stay somewhere nice, right?"

"They're really the best deal in town, miss," the desk clerk assured, far too happy for the business on the off-season.

She rolled her eyes, but her sense of gratitude got the better of her. "Thanks," she muttered. "Maybe I'll see you in the morning for coffee."

"I hope so," Sam sighed with a smile. He took his keys and went out, but he watched cautiously until Araceli was inside her small cottage. He glared around at the night. Somewhere far off, a coyote yipped and howled. No boogie men out this night. He sincerely hoped his small act of charity saved this young woman's life.

**End of Chapter 9**

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><p><em>AN: Finally the love interest appears! In my initial outline, I had no major female characters. That had to be corrected ASAP, and Araceli was created. She caused a ruckus for my Muse. They had a major catfight, bikini-mud-wrestling style. It resulted in rewriting almost the entire outline, but I think Araceli is worth it.  
><em>


	10. The Man at the Counter

_"Certainly, travel is more than the seeing of sights; it is a change that goes on, deep and permanent, in the ideas of living." - Miriam Beard_

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><p>Chapter 10<p>

**The Man at the Counter**

The next morning, Sam woke up to a well-worn motel bed, the smell of old but clean carpet, and the rattling of a semi-truck passing across the nearby highway. He dragged himself to the bathroom and glanced at Theodore Nyt's face. Looking in the mirror helped to remind him who he was supposed to be. He wondered what his real body looked like now. How many years had passed since he last saw his own reflection?

He discovered one huge inconvenience. Theodore Nyt obviously left in a hurry. He had only one change of clothes, which already smelled ripe, and no cleaning supplies. A glance through a phone book showed him that Carrizozo had no laundromats. He hand-washed his underwear and socks in the bathroom sink. He figured it was better to drive a little up the road to an Allsup to buy supplies, at least a fresh shirt, toothbrush, and a razor.

His small shopping trip done, he returned to his motel. A shower, a much-needed shave, and it was back into the jeans, leather chaps, boots, with his new red t-shirt advertising the University of New Mexico's Lobos football. Then he walked across the street to the Four Winds Restaurant. A few truckers had stopped for breakfast before heading into El Paso. They smelled of diesel, sweat, tobacco juice, and Mentos. There were more workers roaming around. One showed him to a booth and unceremoniously flopped a menu in front of him. Sam asked for a coffee just before she could walk away from him. A mug arrived, and she poured the coffee without a word. At least it tasted fresh and piping hot this time.

"Nice day."

Sam looked over to a man at the counter, a Latino with hair grown out long and pulled back into a ponytail, a neatly-trimmed goatee, impeccable black slacks, white button-up shirt, and polished penny loafers. His accent was an intriguing blend, a little bit of Yucatan in the flow of the words, some Texan twang to the vowels, but with a faint Boston tone, as if he grew up in one place, went to school in another, but lived somewhere entirely different. He had a relaxed and refined manner about him. Perhaps a businessman, or a politician in this small town of one thousand residents that was the county seat.

"Yeah...nice," Sam replied warily. "I'm glad it didn't rain."

"Oh no, no rain for a while," he said assuredly with a grin of irony. He sipped some coffee, still staring at Sam, and finally chuckled. "Small world, no?"

Sam stared at him. Small world? Did he know this person? Or more appropriately, did Theodore Nyt know this person? Mister Nyt was a lawyer, after all. Perhaps this man was also a lawyer and knew him professionally.

"Yeah, um...small world," he laughed nervously. He had feigned familiarity before, but this time Sam could not help but think the man looked familiar. Was this someone he used to know. Maybe someone he worked with. After all, he was in New Mexico, mere miles from Project Quantum Leap's facility. Did one of their legal advisers also know Theodore Nyt? Often, once Sam saw a face from his past, he knew the person immediately. So why was this person familiar, yet no name came to his mind?

"Do you even remember me?" the Yucatan man asked in amusement. "I admit, I probably look a lot different, although you look the same as last time. It's been many years, and longer for me than you." Sam wondered what he meant by that. "We've met three times now. Let's see, when would be the last time you'd recall?" he wondered, tapping his goatee. "Ah yes, the university."

"Oh right, the...the university. You were there," Sam nodded as if he was remembering.

"I truly admired you," he said reverently. "I wanted to follow your path." He spread his arms out. "Now here we are, two men on our own paths to bring justice to this world."

Sam raised his coffee mug to him in salute. "To justice!"

The man said no more, so Sam ignored him, sighing out a little nervousness. Meeting someone he was supposed to know and didn't was always hard. He placed his order and got a refill on coffee. While he waited, trying to dig through his memory for just who this man was, he heard a bell as the door opened, and a dining trucker gave a long catcall.

"Sam!"

Sam looked up in shock to hear his name, just in time to see Araceli coming in wearing skin-tight black spandex pants, a shimmering pale copper blouse that equally clung to her curvaceous figure, and a matching copper spitfire cap over her short black hair. Compared to such a fashion-conscious outfit, his three dollar sports shirt looked tacky. Sam hoped the leather jacket gave him a little more fashion.

_Since when do I care about fashion? Was Theodore Nyt concerned with fashion? And what _is _the fashion in 1995?_

"Sam?" the Yucatan man asked. "She calls you Sam now?"

Sam cringed. If this man knew Theodore Nyt, he might question why Araceli called him Sam Beckett.

Araceli stomped in, and her shimmering heels clomped the restaurant's floor. The man at the counter watched with amusement. Everyone in the restaurant looked at her, especially wearing a tight-fitting outfit like that.

She leaned over close to Sam. "What the hell was that about?"

"That...what?" Had he done something? Had something bad happened to her?

"The money," she hissed. "It had to be you."

"Oh that," he realized, remembering he had put some money into her purse while she was in the bathroom. "I only wanted to give you some gas money."

"Gas money?" she exploded. Then she leaned into his ear. "You gave me a thousand dollars. _¡No me chingues!_ Do you expect me to pay it back...with interest...or maybe with my body?"

"_What?_ No, no!" he insisted, shocked she would think that. "It's nothing, really. I figured you could, you know, fix your truck, or buy more than just coffee, maybe buy your mother a good birthday present."

"Birthday?" she shouted. "How did...? Did I tell you about that? Dammit, I talk too much," she muttered. "Whatever! I don't need your stinking money."

"No, really, keep it," he muttered. "I have more than enough."

"Are you some rich millionaire or something?"

"What if I said yeah?"

She eyed him harshly, but he looked too ashamed for this to be an empty boast. Besides, who gave total strangers a thousand dollars for "gas money"?

"I wanted to make sure you had enough to get home so you can see your family again." He looked down into his coffee mug. "Going home to friends and family...is the one thing I wish I could do. You never realize how cherished home is until you leave it."

She was touched by his words. "And where is home to you, Mister Sam Beckett? You said you're heading to Mexico. I doubt that's home."

"No," he admitted. "My home...is nearby, but sometimes it feels very, very far away. And I can never get back to it. No matter how much I want to, something always keeps me away. It's like God, Time, Fate or whatever is preventing me from ever reaching my home...ever! If I can't go back home, I want to make sure others can, whatever that may mean. A few dollar bills is worth it, if it means you can be with your family again."

She sat across from him and slouched. Sam looked out at the trucks heading to El Paso and tried not to look at how her posture revealed her bosom.

"I called my brother this morning," she confessed quietly. "He forgot that his wife already made plans for Friday night, so he can't come get me. She's a bitchy woman too, doesn't care about family, wouldn't even care if I died in this lousy town, all because she wants to see the _Brady Bunch Movie_ on opening night."

Sam frowned, remembering Al's prediction. Had he prevented Araceli's death? Was the rapist still in town, or had he moved on? He lamented that she had decided to wear something so seductive.

"I won't make it home in time for my mother's birthday. The truck needs some parts and will take a week, but my mother's birthday is on Saturday. You don't happen to also have enough money to magically make me a transporter...you know, like _Star Trek_."

"'Fraid not," he smirked, "but I do have a bike. It's only three hours to Socorro, Texas, and it's on my way. I'll give you a lift, if you'll trust me."

"I knew it," she grumbled.

"No, look, I'm being sincere. I'm not some rapist. I'm a lawyer. I know what's illegal."

"Oh? Like driving without a license?"

"That...isn't my fault," he muttered. "Look, I'm just offering a lift. You don't have to accept. Straight shot to Socorro, no funny business, I won't even pull over unless you request it. Three hours, then I'm out of your life."

The man at the counter cleared his throat. "You can trust him, miss," he said in Spanish, and now Sam could hear that Yucatan accent even stronger. "I can vouch for him. He's a rare gentleman. He only cares for your well-being. It's in his nature."

"_Exactamente_," Sam cried, also switching to Spanish without thinking. "My only condition is that you need to wear a helmet. After all, it's the law!"

That got her to laugh a little. "Okay, okay. Three hours, straight shot, no stopping, no funny business. I'll just sell that old dump of a truck. Hope the damn thing explodes! My Harley is waiting at my parents' house, and Papa kept his car, so I can use that. I might use the money to make my dream come true."

"Dream?" he smiled.

"_Escúchala_." Listen. She pointed to the ceiling, and Sam listened to the faintly playing radio. Some woman was singing in Spanish about _amor prohibito_, forbidden love.

"Her voice is amazing," Sam admired. "Who is she?"

"Selena. She is my idol and my inspiration. My outfit," and she waved down her body. "I made it myself based on one she wore in a Coca-Cola commercial. I have all her albums. Even when I sold all my stuff, I didn't sell those. She is a true inspiration for someone like me. However, I've never seen her perform live. There's a concert at the Astrodome at the end of this month. I wanted to go, but that means tickets and a hotel for the night, plus food, and I'd want to buy a souvenir shirt."

"That's your dream? Then do that. Music is a great asset to our lives. I should know!"

"You're a musician?"

"Piano and vocal. I...I've done a few concerts," he admitted humbly. No use telling her he had a doctorates in music and played piano in Carnegie Hall at the age of nineteen.

Sam saw in the corner of his eye, the white door opened and Al stepped out rubbing his eyes. "Barely time for coffee. At least this Leap is almost lined up with the time back home. God, I hate when it's morning your time and the middle of the night my time. Whoa!" If coffee could not wake up Al, a lovely woman in skin-tight spandex could. "She's even hotter by daylight."

"Well," Araceli said, "I guess I'll go search for a store in this town that sells bike helmets. Doubt I'll find one."

"No, no, no!" Al protested as Araceli stood and walked right through his open arms. "Is she leaving? Sam, tell her not to go!"

"Is there trouble?" Sam asked.

"There will be if I can't find one," she chuckled.

"No, no trouble," Al pouted. "Except...damn, she's hot!"

"Oh, and, uh...thanks for last night, Sam," Araceli smiled with a look of true appreciation. "I wish there were more men like you in this world."

Al looked back and forth between Araceli and Sam with a gawking expression. "Thanks? Last night? More men like you? Sam, what in the world did you do to her?" he demanded jealously.

Sam ignored him. He waved and watched Araceli jog across the street. Al watched her even closer.

"Damn, but she's one hot tamale!" Al drooled. "So what did I miss last night? Or is it not something that can be repeated in polite society? And how does she know your name?" He leaned in close to Sam, hoping to block his view. "You didn't tell her your name, did you?" He held up his cigar as if it was a lecturing finger. Ignoring him, Sam rose up, walked right through Al, and headed to the restroom. "You do realize..." He turned and stuttered, shocked that Sam actually walked through him on purpose—he knew Sam _hated_ when he walked through things—but he followed, still trying to lecture him. "There's another _you_ running around this desert with that name, a rather famous _you_. Do you realize that...Doctor Samuel Beckett?"

Once they had privacy in the bathroom, Sam felt free to talk. "Al, what does Ziggy say about Araceli?"

"That she's the finest catch this side of the Rio Grande."

"I'm serious! Does she still die?"

Al checked the handlink. "Right now, history shows that she's still raped this evening in her room at the Rainbow Inn. She's not murdered, but she ends up getting pregnant and..." Al lowered the handlink with a grim face. "...and dies nine months from now in childbirth. Damn," he muttered.

"If I take her with me, does that lower my odds of success?"

Al punched something into the colorful handlink and gave it a few smacks. "No. In fact, they go up a little. If you take her, Ziggy predicts she'll survive unharmed."

"That's it then! I'm taking her, no matter what."

"No kidnapping, Sam."

Sam left the restroom, drank more coffee, and finally the meal came. He ate, and seeing the omelet, Al left to get some breakfast as well. Sam was in high spirits. He went from being chased by Mafia hit men to rescuing a gorgeous damsel in distress. Sometimes, this Leaping business wasn't so bad!

As Sam began to leave the diner, the man at the counter waved to him. "Be seeing you around, Sam."

Sam watched him again. How did he know his name was Sam? Of course, Araceli said that name. Sam waved warily. He did not understand how, but that man was so familiar!

Sam went into his motel room to prepare for checkout. "Temperature's rising, fever is high," he began to sing, going around the small room in good spirits. "Can't see no future, can't see no sky. My feet are so heavy, so is my head. I wish I was a baby, I wish I was..."

He heard a noise behind him and froze. Too late, he realized someone had been hiding in the bathroom.

"Go on, Mister Nyt," urged a man with an accent to his voice that was definitely not local. "I always liked John Lennon. Please, keep singing. Finish the line. I'd be more than happy to fulfill your wish."

Before Sam could face the intruder, something hard hit him over the head. As darkness clouded his brain and he only faintly felt himself collapse to the floor, the thing that worried Sam the most was if Araceli would make it home safely without him.

**End of Chapter 10**

* * *

><p><em>Disclaimer: Sam is singing "Cold Turkey" by John Lennon. I don't hold the rights to this song.<em>

_Araceli is a Selena fan, which isn't surprising for a Mexican-American living in 1995. All my Hispanic female friends were huge Selena fans. I gave Araceli the Selena concert shirt for the previous evening, and this copper outfit is one of Selena's iconic outfits from a Coca-Cola advertisement during her time as a spokesperson for the company.  
>To see a pic: bit =dot= lyNS6eJi _

_Selena was known as the "Tejano Queen." Her fame did not spread to mainstream American music until the postmortem release of her album "Dreaming of You" with the eponymous single and one of my favorite songs, "I Could Fall In Love." Araceli's dream of seeing Selena at the Astrodome is significant. It was her last major concert and broke records for the largest Tejano concert, beating her own previous record, also at the Astrodome. It set a record for the largest Astrodome concert, which lasted 6 years and still sits at #2 today. Selena was murdered on March 31st, 1995... 45 days after the events in this story._


	11. Our Thing

_"The mob is the mother of tyrants." - Diogenes_

* * *

><p>Chapter 11<p>

**Our Thing**

The Mafia.

_Cosa Nostra._

Our Thing.

The original Sicilian mafiosi had no need for a name. They called their practices _Cosa Nostra_, Our Thing. When meeting another member, he was introduced as being in _la stessa cosa_, "the same thing."

There are claims that bands of outlaws similar to, perhaps forefathers of, what we call the Mafia existed since the Middle Ages. In Italy's Revolution of 1848 and the decades of chaos that followed, these bands grouped together to kill police and witnesses, burn evidence, and all around cause chaos. When Rome took control of the situation, these thieves and criminals offered to patrol areas, preventing another uprising. The government, desperate for stability, bowed to their wishes. The secretive bands turned to a more lucrative business of guarding lemon groves and protecting workers through a mix of bribery and threats. Closer ties were made between families to ensure fair wages and safe working environments.

The word "Mafia" came into use in the later half of the nineteenth century. It derives from the Sicilian adjective _mafiusu_, aggressive bragging, boasting, or in some dialects, man of honor, bravado. It was a term mostly used by the media. The actual members had their own term. They called their structure the Honored Society. It became a value system, something honorable to the working man, but disreputable to employers: self-perceived men of honor; long, proud families ruling their various districts. Since they considered their activities honorable, fighting for the freedoms of the little people—a Roman Robin Hood, if you will—and no honorable man needed to "belong" to any pompous society, they simply called their actions _Cosa Nostra_, "Our Thing."

They dressed simply, even slovenly, to hide who they really were. They were rich, power hungry, and power often brought corruption. Murder was an easy way to eliminate those against Cosa Nostra, and a simple solution for those wanting to rise in the ranks. There evolved elaborate ceremonies of induction, strict rules, oaths, blood bonds, intricate webs of family lines. The simple concept of _Our Thing_ became complicated and potentially fatal.

During Mussolini's regime, many Sicilians fled to America. Like the Underground Railroad, Cosa Nostra became heavily involved with getting Italians to freedom...for a price. Altruism was not profitable.

After World War II, Italy was again in chaos. The Mafia rose, seized control, and established order. With ties now linked to America and Australia, and displaced Mafia members suddenly aware of the advantages of international operatives, Cosa Nostra became stronger than ever. Drug trafficking became a major money maker.

Meanwhile, mafiosi in America were busy with sneaking in alcohol during Prohibition, loan-sharking, drug trafficking, prostitution, gambling, creating Las Vegas, corrupting teamsters, fighting street wars, and escaping the FBI. The Five Families of New York ruled the city with iron fists. A few other families spread out to Chicago, Los Angeles, Kansas City, Cleveland, New Orleans, Detroit, and other major metropolises. With such a huge country, there was plenty of room for new families to sprout off and gain control. For half a century, the Mafia grew in power and size.

Then came the eighties and nineties. Family wars broke out, and many prominent Dons were killed. The Mafia fell to younger hands, members with new ideas, new approaches to making money.

Cosa Nostra went white collar.

The government fought back with the witness protection program, one of the greatest enemies to the secret society. If members were caught, a new life could be assured if they broke their oaths of silence. Particularly after the RICO Act made it a crime to belong to an organization that performed illegal acts, the influence of the Mafia drastically fell, but they did not completely fade away.

In general, the American public are kept unaware of the influence the Mafia actually has in the areas where they rule. _GoodFellas_, _The Godfather_, and other Hollywood movies painted a picture of the Italian families that stuck in the mindset of Americans. When someone said "Mafia," Robert Di Niro, Joe Pesci, Al Pacino, and Marlon Brando were who they imagined. The fedora hat, pin-striped suit, a tommy-gun hidden in a violin case, all became iconic caricatures. The seriousness of modern day Mafia activities was laughed off by the public.

Except for those in Cosa Nostra. There is nothing funny to their business. Their oaths made in blood are not a joke. Their actions carried out in blood are anything but funny to their victims.

Whether firmly entrenched in their control, or more concerned with hiding from the law, it mattered little. The Family adjusted to change. There were always new ways of making money.

* * *

><p><em>Since those initial gunshots at sunset and seeing the cactus blow up, I had been going through my head everything I knew about the Mafia. Which, admittedly, wasn't much! I knew a thing or two from my Leap as Frankie LaPalma. I don't actually...<em>remember _everything from that Leap, but I remember..._some _things. Or maybe it was from reading _The Godfather.

_In any case, I knew what awaited me if I got caught. I knew I had to avoid these people at all costs. I knew pain and torment awaited those unlucky enough to cross these violent people._

_I knew, as soon as I was captured, that I was in deep doodoo._

_As I slowly regained consciousness, I realized the beatings must have already begun. Instant agony, the thickness of blood starting to dry and crackle on my body, a stabbing sensation in my rib, an unbelievable pain in my finger. By the bruises on my legs, face, and chest, I realized I had been beaten already._

_The Mafia would not bother beating up an unconscious man. So what happened? _

_The memories were fuzzy. Of course, so are most of my memories. Yet these were more recent, and they were memories I instantly wished I could repress again. Faces, pain so bad I recall vomiting, threats both shouted in a spray of spittle and whispered direly with a knife in my face, then more torture. The memories flashed, and with them, brutal sensation returned to my body. I wanted to vomit again. I wanted to fall back to sleep so I could escape the agony._

_Being blown up with the cactus might have been more desirable._

**End of Chapter 11  
><strong>


	12. Come Around

_"There are only two forces in the world, the sword and the spirit. In the long run the sword will always be conquered by the spirit." - Napoleon Bonaparte_

* * *

><p>Chapter 12<p>

**Come Around**

Sam's sense of irony kicked in when he woke up to someone playing Green Day on a boom box. Hearing the crackling static of a bad AM reception playing _When I Come Around_ just as he was coming around and waking up made him want to laugh, except there was a stabbing pain in his ribs. He was handcuffed to a water pipe in a rundown building that smelled of desert sand and mildew mixed with freshly brewed coffee and garlic. Blood had dripped from his head all down his neck and bare chest, then dried and crusted. He could tell just by taking a deep breath that a rib was broken.

"Jesus, Sam," came Al's apologetic voice. "I...I don't know what I can do!"

Hearing his best friend that helpless was all Sam needed for him to know that the situation was truly grim.

As the full sensation of being conscious buzzed through the blissful numbness, memories of torture flashed into his mind. He had been hit numerous times, stomped on, something hot applied to his skin. A boot to his chest had cracked a rib. His tongue felt the raggedness of a broken tooth in that too-perfect smile. Then the worst memory: sitting in a hard chair, one arm strapped down, while a fingernail had been removed with pliers. He shook his head, hoping the blurred memories would sink back down into oblivion. Then perhaps he could sink as well and avoid the pain by sleeping.

A man nearby shouted over Billie Joe Armstrong's vocals. "Aldo, turn off that damn music."

"This is the only station I can pick up that's singing in English," another man complained. "It's all damn Spanish out here. Fuckin' state of Mexico that wants to leech off the American people."

"Hey, I said turn that thing off. He's coming to."

"Sure thing, Tony, sure." The man called Aldo laughed and sang over the radio music, "When he comes aro-o-ound!"

Sam was still wishing he could simply drift back off to sleep when someone grabbed his hair and yanked his head up. He opened one swollen eye to a square jaw with a deep scar on the side up to the corner of his lip, a crooked nose, and flinty eyes. His white teeshirt already had blood speckles dried on it. The man behind him with thinner, his black hair slicked back, narrow features with high cheekbones, but by how he walked Sam guessed he was the more deadly of the two. This thug Aldo was the muscle, but the thin man named Tony looked like someone who...specialized!

"You ready to tell us?" the man who had him barked.

"Tell you...what?" Sam asked, cringing already.

Aldo slugged him in the stomach. The cracked rib shot pain all through Sam. He could barely breathe, let alone cry out.

"Shall I get started on your other fingernails?" He grabbed Sam's hand and pressed into the bloody nail bed of the one already ripped out. Sam howled at the agony and kicked at the floor.

Al bolted forward ready to slug the brute, but his fists went right through him. "You leave him alone, bastard!" He kept kicking, but to no avail. Al's wing-tipped shoes kept passing right through the man.

"Now, now, Aldo," Tony grinned, tugging the other man aside. "Maybe he just forgot. I told you not to be so rough on the first go. It was too much for him. He repressed it all, see?"

Sam was pale and sweating with lingering pain. He wished he could simply will himself into unconsciousness. "Al?" he panted too quiet for the Mafia goons to hear.

"Yeah, Sam, I'm here. I'm not leaving you to face this alone. Just hang on, okay? Gooshie is working on something..."

Sam heard Al's words, but he hurt too bad to respond or comprehend the details. Tears streamed down his face with no attempt to stop them.

Tony pulled out a riding crop and tapped Sam's chin up. "Teddy...can I call you Teddy?" he asked playfully. "You took something from my boss. We want it back. Now," he laughed blithely, "you're gonna die one way or another—we have our orders, after all—but the boss wants his money, and only you know where it is. So you see, we can't kill you until you tell us. Hold out on us, and Aldo gets to keep having fun." He waved to his partner, who snarled hungrily. "Tell us truthfully, and you get to sleep...eternally."

"When you screwed around with the boss's daughter, you picked the wrong little girl, you pedo-perv," Aldo sneered, and spat on him. "There's a special place in Hell for people like you."

"Oh, don't be too hard on him about that," Tony chuckled. "Francie was spreading her legs for anyone stupid enough to have a go with her. Poor Teddy here was unlucky enough to knock her up. Stealing from the boss was your biggest mistake. Trying to make a run with the money was even stupider. You had your fun, and now you're paying the piper. You saw what happened to your wife."

"Wife?" Sam asked, still straining to overcome pain so bad it made him feel sick.

"Did you forget that, too?" Tony laughed and shook his head. "Poor Teddy! Aldo hit you too hard. Your wife was screwing us out of millions while you were off screwing fifteen-year-olds. Bet you thought you'd be the next Bonnie and Clyde, huh? Do you honestly not remember Elena's screams as Aldo slit her throat?"

The bullish man nearby chuckled gruffly.

"You...you murdered...my wife?" he asked in shock. His eyes turned to Al. Why hadn't he told him any of that? Why did he not say anything about having a wife? Then he remembered a name Al only briefly mentioned. "Elena...Elena Ryder...Nyt Ryder."

Al looked apologetic and chewed worriedly on his cigar. To avoid Sam's pleading eyes, he checked something on the handlink. "Ziggy, tell Gooshie to hurry."

"Is it all coming back to you now?" Tony asked with a sly smile. "So see, there's nothing left for you. You and Elena...screwed with us...and now...you're going to die," he explained slowly, enunciating each part with glee. "No one came to save her. No one's coming to save you. The boss doesn't care how far we take things." He waved the riding crop over to a desk, where Sam saw pliers that were already bloody, knives, a hacksaw, and meat hooks. "Now, if it were up to me, I hope you _never_ tell us where the money is. I'd love to test one of my great experiments: how long can a human survive by eating only his own flesh? You ever wonder that, Teddy?" He picked up a butcher knife. "If we carve you up, little bits at a time, how long would you last? Could the body regrow muscle in time to supplement what was cut away? It'd have to be surgical, of course. Simply hack off a leg, and you're down a large amount of mass. But carefully slicing, allowing an area to heal...would the muscle in, say, your calves regrow by the time we finish with your stomach, your back, your arms? It all depends on the health of the patient and the skill of the doctor."

"Tony," Aldo grimaced, "just hearin' ya makes me wanna puke."

Tony rolled his eyes. "When he tells us, it's then up to you. Until then, I am the interrogator." He looked exasperated at Sam and waved back to his partner. "See what I have to work with. My guess is I could keep you alive for over a year. Aldo here wouldn't want to wait even a week. Meanwhile, that money is sitting, rotting, when it could be in a bank making interest."

Sam just wanted to pass out already.

"You hear him, _pompinaio_?" Aldo shouted, and he punched Sam across the face. "Tell him where the fuck that money is or Tony the Chopper's gonna spend a year makin' ya eat yer own guts."

"Al?" Sam asked. He spat out a stream of blood.

"Owl?" Aldo asked. "Could he mean the Owl Bar?"

"They do think he passed through San Antonio," Tony mused. He knelt down to lean in closer so he could hear Sam's faint voice. "Is that where you hid it, Teddy? The Owl Bar?"

Sam kept his good eye on his friend. Al looked helpless and furious. He had witnessed this thing from the beginning. Sam faintly recalled seeing the hologram try to pummel Aldo and Tony as they whipped him, punched him, and slowly plied off his fingernail. Nothing Al did could stop them, and there was no way to call for help.

"Money," Sam said thickly through his swollen mouth. "Where?"

"That's right," Tony smiled. "Tell us where you hid it."

Al frowned in despair. Did Sam realize what these men were talking about? Tell them where the money was, and they would kill him! Unless the pain was already so bad, he was at the point of not caring anymore. "Your motorcycle...that chick Araceli hot-wired it and took off. She has your duffel bag, and we have no idea where she went."

Sam dropped his head and smiled faintly. "Good. I'm glad. She's safe." That meant Araceli got out of Carrizozo. Hopefully, she was halfway home by now. She probably could use that money, too.

Tony looked annoyed at waiting. He lifted his riding crop and whipped it hard across Sam's chest. "She's safe? Who? Did you give the money to a girl? Maybe that _señorita_ you were talking to earlier?"

"I don't know," Sam tried to yell, but his mouth was swelling up again. "It's gone. I don't know where it is anymore."

"And where was it last?" Aldo said, looming over him threateningly.

Sam knew, if he said it was in the bike, they would hunt that Harley and find Araceli. He could not involve her in this. "Wallet." He spat out more blood. "I lost my wallet."

Aldo aimed a shoe to his stomach. That injured rib cracked again more dangerously. "_Vaffanculo! Sei un coglione__. _You think we're stupid? You think we'd believe you could fit a hundred million dollars in a goddamn wallet?" His knee slammed up into Sam's chin and knocked his head backwards.

Al bolted. "You son of a..." Before he could throw another punch, he realized the futility. All he could do now was be moral support and keep Sam's spirits up as he suffered through this torment. "Sam, are you okay? Dammit, a kick like that, he could've snapped your neck."

"Easy, Aldo," Tony smiled, pulling him back before he could aim another kick. "I'll get to work on him. He'll talk soon enough. Even if it's gone, if he passed it off or if it was stolen, we'll find out where to look." He leaned over and right into Sam's face. Al glared daggers at him but was utterly ignored. "You better tell us precisely where to look. Otherwise, it's fried Teddy from here on out, _capisce_? Have you ever tasted human meat, Teddy? Tastes like bacon." He chuckled softly as he walked to the desk of instruments. Tony lifted a scalpel, inspected it closely in the dim light, and turned a frightful grin to Sam. "Aldo, prepare the table."

**End of Chapter 12**

* * *

><p><em>AN: Yikes! I'll skip what happens next. TV wouldn't show it, so I won't either._

_The week of February 11, 1995 (this week in the story) Green Day's "When I Come Around" was #2 on the Weekly Pop Top 20 Countdown. Within two weeks, it replaced Hootie & the Blowfish's "I Only Wanna Be With You," which held the #1 spot this week. Green Day would round out the MTV Top 40 Songs of 1995 at Number 4, just beating out Hootie. Yes, I researched what music was popular at this time. No, I have no life._

_My inspiration comes from the graphic novel "A History of Violence" by John Wagner and Vince Locke. If you like dark thrillers, I highly recommend it._

_Tony the Chopper...Tony Tony Chopper... "One Piece" fans are probably giggling._

_To be accurate, human meat differs in taste depending on the country of origin. Americans and Europeans taste like bacon, while Africans and Pacific Islanders taste like veal. I bet you always wanted to know that. Rest assured, I'm not a closet cannibal. I was a morbid little child who once researched this out of curiosity._


	13. Sacrifice for a Friend

_"If a friend is in trouble, don't annoy him by asking if there is anything you can do. Think up something appropriate and do it." - Edgar Watson Howe_

* * *

><p>Chapter 13<p>

**Sacrifice for a Friend**

Sam had blissfully passed out again, but not after a sizable chunk of muscle was removed from his arm...without anesthesia.

All Al could be thankful for was that Tony the Chopper was a trained surgeon, kept his instruments sterilized, made the incision as straight as he could despite his patient writhing under him, and used skin adhesive rather than barbaric stitches. It was not much to be thankful about, but it was something. Now with his friend passed out and bandaged up, he had to step out of the Imaging Chamber.

The very first thing he did was vomit into the nearest trash receptacle. He had been holding that in all morning.

Tina rushed to his side, warbling in worry like some over-protective songbird, but Al waved her aside. He was not in the mood for mothering, not even for Tina's flirtatious way of distracting his anger.

"Gooshie!" he barked.

The poor man looked like a leprechaun caught in the headlights. Being faced with an irate Navy Real Admiral was of no help. "We're still working on it," he piped. "Ziggy gives only five percent odds of success."

Donna handed Al a mug of coffee as a peace offering. Her pink dress, conservative while still being elegant and stylish, was a dash of hope amidst a thick, tense atmosphere. "Believe me, Al, we're working fast. None of us like the idea of Sam...of him being...tortured." Her words died out as tears she refused to shed lined her eyes.

Al realized, for all her professional appearance—so different from Al's loud outfits, Gooshie's mad scientist appearance, Tina's trendy clothes and flashing jewelry, and Verbeena's stoic attitude—Donna's hair was coming loose from its bun. Dark circles had begun to form under her eyes. She had the pale appearance she got whenever she skipped meals. Her hands twisted together, wanting to ask something yet dreading the truth.

"How...how is he?" Donna asked softly. Everyone looked to Al. He was their link to knowing the worst.

He sighed and stared down at the coffee. "You don't want to know, Donna...you really don't want to know."

Standing there in that abandoned desert building, listening to Sam's screams, and being utterly incapable of helping him was the worst feeling in the world. Yet at the same time, he could not simply abandon his friend at a time like that. They had been in dire situations before, but nothing so gruesome as this.

Al would do anything to save his friend, which was precisely what the Project crew was working on. The one time when Sam and Al simo-leaped and switched places, so that Al leaped into Tom Jarrett, Sam somehow managed to go into the Acceleration Chamber and Leap directly into Al, thrusting him back into the present.

Al had proposed to do the same thing this time, Leaping into Theodore Nyt. Granted, that did nothing to help the current situation but...dammit all, Al was _not_ about to sit back and watch his best friend be tortured. Sam was a scientist. He did not have the mentality to survive this. Al was a soldier, trained in grueling conditions, hardened through two tours of Vietnam. He had been a P.O.W. for six years and knew what to expect, down to the worst of it. He was prepared to make that sacrifice for his friend!

"Verbeena?"

"She's already waiting for you," Donna assured. "She knew you'd need to talk."

He nodded, slowly deflating from the indignation he felt at those two Mafia bastards. He finally took a sip of coffee and turned to Doctor Verbeena Beeks' office.

After he was gone, Donna looked back to the others. Gooshie looked frazzled. Tina chomped her gum a little louder in a nervous habit. She then looked hesitantly at the Acceleration Chamber.

"Don't even think about it, Doctor Eleese," Ziggy warned.

Donna glared at the large sphere that contained Ziggy's "brain." However, she knew it was useless. Ziggy never felt guilt. Besides, someone—she guessed Verbeena—had ordered one of the Marine guards to stand in front of the door to the Chamber, either to stop her or Al...likely both.

"What are Sam's chances of being rescued?" she asked yet again.

The computer made a sound as if sighing. "As I've said sixteen times already, I have no records of Theodore Nyt following his departure from his penthouse in Las Vegas. His body never surfaced. The case is still open. The chances of him being alive and in hiding are equal to the chance that he was killed and his body hidden. I simply have no information by which to calculate a statistic. If I had to guess," and the computer sounded peeved at being once again reduced to pure guesswork, "his chance of rescue is less than one percent."

Donna looked at the Acceleration Chamber again. She knew Sam changed time so that they married. When Sam first Leaped, he had been a bachelor, and she stood him up years before. She could not imagine _ever_ leaving Sam at the altar. It was unthinkable! Yet that was what originally happened. So then why had God, Time, Fate, or Whatever sent Sam to save his marriage to her if not to have her dedicate her life to bringing him back home?

If her theories and calculations could not do it, after all these years, why not sacrifice herself to bring him home? By all rights, she should not have those happy memories of marriage. Sam could not even remember her, and she felt it was best that way.

She and Verbeena had talked about this many times during their therapy sessions. On one hand, Donna wanted her husband back desperately. On another, she wondered if her presence somehow hindered his return. If she had not been there, who would Sam have picked to do her job? Someone better? Someone smarter, more skilled? Would that other person have figured it out by now?

And there were the memories. She even remembered that Valentine's Day of 1995, seeing a single headlight swerve off the desert road, pulling over into the ghost town of Carthage, and shouting if the person needed help. She remembered, when she told Sam about it the next morning, he had scolded her. What if it had been someone up to no good?

The Sam of back then had no idea that the person she almost met was his future self!

Obviously, that had not happened in the original history, yet...she _remembered_ it. Clearly! As soon as Al came out and told them, she recalled it. She had always known it happened, yet she realized it had _just_ happened.

No wonder Al sometimes went a little crazy, seeing the changes to the world that Sam wrought. Only Al and Ziggy were 100% aware of the differences. Sam would be too, if his memory could stabilize for more than one Leap at a time. Other than to Verbeena, Al only occasionally told them about the changes. Often little things, sometimes major things.

She felt there had to be a reason Sam changed the things he did. There _must_ have been a reason for her being there.

But what?

* * *

><p>Al slouched and stared at the coffee mug growing cold as he held it in both hands, as if willing it to grow a magic beanstalk that would take him to a golden goose that could solve all his problems.<p>

"Do you notice any changes?"

It was a standard question, one that amused and annoyed Al. It had been fascinating the first couple years, seeing what changed in the world around him. Donna's sudden appearance was certainly a shock. Part of his mind knew she would be there. After all, she had been with them since Project Starbright. Another part of his mind remembered her leaving, and Sam being stood up in that little mission chapel. He recalled both histories thanks to the effects of the brain cell link. Fashion sometimes changed. Other times, the changes were subtle, too minute to mention.

"That plant in the corner," he nodded, not even looking up to it. "What is it called?"

"Areca palm," Verbeena answered in a smoothly flowing timbre. "It's good at removing airborne chemicals."

"It was a pothos last time."

"Both are lovely office plants."

"Yes, but last time it was a pothos, and now it's a palm." These minor changes sometimes annoyed him more than the major ones. "And Donna is wearing a different dress than this morning. I don't think she even owned that pink thing she's wearing. And her hair is up. It was down last time. Your hair too. It's a little longer."

"Do you know when I had cut it in the previous timeline?"

He glared up. "I'm a man. You should be happy I can even notice something like clothes and hair." He set the coffee aside. No magic beanstalks today. He pulled out a cigar instead.

"Not in my office," she said firmly.

"Your areca palm will suck up the chemicals," he dismissed and lit up anyway.

"You're particularly aggressive today," she noted, folding her hands together on top of her desk.

Al leered at her. "Tell me, Dr. Beeks," he said with a dire tone, "have you ever watched a man being operated on without anesthesia?" She blinked silently. "Have you ever watched a man have his fingernail ripped off? Have you ever sat by, utterly powerless, as your buddy gets tortured?"

"This goes beyond Dr. Beckett," she surmised.

"Damn right it does!" He knew she would get to it, but it still did not mean he liked to talk about it. "Back in 'Nam..." Nope, couldn't talk about it! "Do you realize, I have two completely different memories of my time as a prisoner? One was a year longer than the other. One extra year of torment! The things I saw...and now...watching Sam...listening to him..." His eyes shut to stop the fresh memories.

"Do you blame Sam?"

"For what?" he snapped. "For saving his brother's life and damning me to one more year of torture? Hell no! Even if it meant being a prisoner one more year, to save Sam's brother...it's worth it, right?"

"Only you can answer that," she said gently. "But I meant, do you blame him now?"

"For getting captured? No. I should have been there. I could have given him warning. This Leap was going so well," he lamented. "Ziggy said it was safe in Carrizozo. I...I got sloppy. I was tired, hungry, thought I'd rest and get some breakfast."

"Food and sleep are vital necessities."

He punched the arm of his chair. "I wasn't taking his situation seriously enough!" He backed off, realizing that shouting at her did nothing. "Verbeena," he said with a more personal tone, telling her without words that he was now going to speak to her, not as a psychologist, but as a friend. "Sam...he means everything to me. When I had nothing, when I was a drunken mess up to my ears with alimony, Sam came along. He believed in me. He rescued me. He gave me a true chance at life. I owe him...everything. Then, when I Leaped, he sacrificed his life here, his reunion with Donna, an opportunity to fix Ziggy and get the Project to work as it was meant to...his own freedom! His own life! He gave it all up without hesitation to save my life. Sam has been a prisoner of this Project for longer than I was a prisoner of the Viet Cong. If I could rescue him now...if I could Leap in his place, give him a chance to solve this Gordian Knot, I bet he could solve it. He'd get me back. I trust him on that."

"But Ziggy says the chance of you being able to guide your Leap are less than five percent," she reasoned. "When you Leaped into Tom Jarrett, Sam managed to Leap into you because of his years of experience, something you don't have."

Now his frustration burst. "Then what the hell am I supposed to do?" he barked. "Stand there and watch as they butcher him?"

Verbeena waited a moment for him to calm down. She wished he had not shouted that so loudly. Ziggy had confided with her just what Sam was going through, calculating that Al would emerge and be in need of counseling. Verbeena knew this situation would be a challenge on the mental health of the whole crew. Even she felt anguish for her old friend. Donna did not need to hear about such things. The poor woman was an emotional powder keg as it was!

Once she saw Al's jaw unclench, Verbeena said, "Ziggy still believes, as soon as Araceli reaches her parents' home, Sam will have completed his mission of saving her, and at that point he'll Leap. It was never certain that his reason for being there was to get Theodore Nyt to Mexico."

Al chomped on his cigar. "But it only takes three hours to get from Carrizozo to Socorro. Sam's been dealing with those bastards upwards of eight hours."

"Maybe she stopped along the way. She said she has a brother who owns a shop in El Paso. We have no records on this, time is changing too rapidly for Ziggy to make any decision beyond guesswork, and you know how he hates that. Try to rest, Admiral," she recommended. "While Sam is unconscious, those men will do nothing. I'll have Ziggy alert you as soon as Sam wakes up."

He took his coffee mug, but he paused in her doorway to look at the Acceleration Chamber and the Marine guard standing in front of it.

"Don't even think about it," Verbeena warned sternly.

Ziggy piped in. "I wanted to say that!"

"Get some sleep," Doctor Beeks ordered again. "Donna!" She knew the woman was listening in now. "That goes for you too, dear. Sleep. Doctor's orders."

Al and Donna looked at each other. There truly was nothing either one could do but worry themselves sick. Al waved for Donna to follow him to the elevators. He heard Verbeena spraying her office to get rid of the cigar smell.

"Al?" Donna hugged herself as she walked beside him. "Will he be okay? I mean, that's his physical body. What if they...hurt him real bad?"

That was something Ziggy had hypothesized on before. What if Doctor Beckett's physical body obtained critical damage? What if one of those bastards cut off a finger, or a whole leg? What if Sam became blind?

"If anything happens, we'll deal with it then."

It was not comforting, but it was the best he could tell her. There was no way he could admit to Donna what Sam had already gone through.

**End of Chapter 13**

* * *

><p><em>AN: I love scenes from Al's present, viewing "the future," seeing Gooshie, Tina, Donna, Verbeena, Ziggy, everyone we only hear stories about. The series should have had more scenes like that. If they ever do a QL remake (which would be awesome!) one thing I'd change is MORE FUTURE! The books love to explore this vague territory. A remake should show more of the Project crew, the drama behind the scenes, the political struggles, Al's military connections, the tragic love of Donna, the strain Dr. Beeks must handle to calm down the Visitors and the rest of the crew, the scandalous love triangle of Al-Tina-Gooshie, and the playful snobbery of Ziggy. Remaking old shows is trendy, after all._

_And they should rewrite the ending! Really, don't get me started on the last episode... Everyone hates it! I prefer to close my eyes before that last line pops up... "Doctor Sam Beckett never returned home." Let me think he at least returned _someday_! Or if not, what were his reasons? Did he change Time to the point where PQL never existed? Did his love for helping strangers become more important than his goal of returning home? What about Donna? Did he age? Is he now immortal? Has Sam transcended humankind? Instead, we get six vague, thudding words. I'm still waiting for a movie or remake to give closure to all the fans who have spent nearly two decades agonizing over that horrible ending._


	14. Don Quixote and Sancho

_"To right the unrightable wrong,_  
><em>To love pure and chaste from afar,<em>  
><em>To try when your arms are too weary,<em>  
><em>To reach the unreachable star.<em>"  
><em>- Don Quixote, "Man of La Mancha"<em>

* * *

><p>Chapter 14<p>

**Don Quixote, Dulcinea, and Sancho**

When Sam awakened, he laid on his stomach, his face turned to the side, on the cold metal operating table. His arms were stretched out with two sets of handcuffs holding him down. His left arm was bandaged, and the pain from Tony the Chopper's "operation" still overwhelmed him. He had to admit, it was not as bad as the operation itself. This pain, he could handle by simply not moving and reminding himself to breathe through it.

"Sam?"

That soft voice prompted him to open his eyes. Al stood beside him, and Sam could see that his friend had been crying. He wondered if Al had left his side at all. Silently, he glanced around the dark, musty room.

"They're in the other room watching TV," Al told him.

Sam faintly heard the actors from _Northern Exposure_ speaking in a witty banter. Tina had liked that show and watched it loudly on her monitors, much to Sam's distraction.

"I'm so sorry, Sam. I really am."

Sam managed a weak smile. "You've been saying that...all day. It's getting...really annoying," he teased weakly, but it did not cheer Al up. Just hearing Sam's voice, scratchy from all the screaming, pained his heart.

"We had planned to have me Leap into you, at least get you out of here."

Sam immediately began to shake his head. "No. I can't let you do that."

Al knew from the start, Sam would protest the maneuver. "Won't work anyway. We were struggling on this all day, but Ziggy's estimate of success never went above seven percent."

Sam felt relieved. Although he desperately wanted the pain to be gone, he would never accept such a sacrifice. "Don't you ever...think up something...like that again." He struggled out a smile. "Last thing we need...is both of us bouncing around time...like a couple of idiots." He tried to laugh, but the pain flared up sharply through him. He clenched his jaw and sucked air in through his teeth. "It hurts," he cringed, trying to be strong but feeling his resolve fading in the wake of agony.

"Oy, Tony," they heard Aldo say in the adjoining room. "Sounds like your patient is up."

"Eh, he'll pass out again."

"Maybe he's hungry," chuckled Aldo. "You saved that gross shit, right?"

"No more gross than you eating a hot dog. Now shut it. I can't hear what Maggie is saying." The television volume went up a few notches. Neither one bothered to get off the threadbare couch.

Sam tried to breathe through the pain, but his body began to shake. He felt cold. Severe blood loss, a logical part of him realized. The shivering made the surgery site hurt worse. He clenched his good hand. The handcuffs on that one were loose, giving him enough movement to scratch his head or grab the edge of the table, but not enough to reach the other set of cuffs. He opted for pressing a pressure point on his shoulder that dulled the nerve impulses from his mutilated arm. It was enough relief for him to catch his breath, but he still felt like vomiting.

Al reached his hand out to Sam's head. He knew he could not touch him, and that immense separation anguished him. Even though Al saw the facade of Theodore Nyt, he knew that was Sam in there, Sam's body that had those deep bruises, burns, cuts, and now this barbaric removal of muscles.

"It's not fair," gritted Al. "I should be able to rescue my own friend. I should be able to..." His throat choked up. Another tear swelled on his pink eyelid and rolled down his weathered cheek. "Goddammit!"

"Al," sighed Sam.

He smiled gratefully. Just knowing he had someone there for him gave him strength. He began to reach to Al's face, wishing he could wipe those tears aside and reassure him. The handcuffs rattled, and his fingers went through the holographic cheek.

Still, Al knew what Sam meant and leaned in to that touch he could not feel. This small gesture, comforting him in the midst of torturous agony, spoke more than any mundane words. Although Al felt guilty for his lack of caution, he saw that Sam held no blame toward him. Their friendship reached beyond Time.

Sam let his hand collapse back down and laid still. Moving like that hurt, and he had to wait a moment to overcome the waves of nausea. "Any chance I'll Leap?" he whispered. Having Al by his side was comforting, but he still wanted this pain to be gone. He knew immediately that the news would not be good by the way Al's forehead wrinkled up.

"Ziggy thought perhaps you were meant to get Araceli home and kept assuring all of us, as soon as she reached her parents' place, you'd be out of here."

"But?" There was always a _but_.

"But...it's night now, and no Leap. Ziggy assures us, there are no reports of a crash or anything bad. In fact, at the moment, Araceli de la Rosa has sort of vanished from history. Ziggy doesn't know what to make of it."

Sam nodded in understanding. No rescue, and the woman he had wanted to help was still in danger. "I hope she's safe."

Just then, there was a knock on the door. Sam could not turn around to look, but Al walked over to the next room to see what was going on. His eyes went wide at what he saw.

"Oh no," he sighed. "You damn fool!"

Aldo grinned at the person on their doorstep. "Well, hello there! You lost, little lady?"

"Your boss thought you two could use a little...entertainment." Araceli stepped in wearing the same skin-tight copper outfit as that morning.

Sam heard her voice and felt an icy shiver of terror. Despite the pain, he looked around and saw her saunter in. He opened his mouth to shout at her, but someone covered his lips.

"_Silencio. No digas ni pío._" Silence. Don't say a peep.

Sam looked at the man who was picking the lock of one of his handcuffs. Mocha skin, long hair pulled back, a goatee, business suit...it was the man from the Four Winds Restaurant, the one with the Yucatan accent.

"Who are you?" Sam asked, belatedly realizing that he was supposed to know this person.

He did not even look surprised at the lack of familiarity. Perhaps he figured, after such torture, Sam had amnesia as well. "Call me Sancho. Our little Dulcinea is here to seduce the enemy while I rescue our Don Quixote."

"Huh?" Sam was really confused now.

"Just keep quiet. I've almost got this." He focused on the lock. The handcuffs cracked apart, and Sam was able to pull one arm free.

Meanwhile, Tony and Aldo were inspecting Araceli with starving eyes. She stood firmly, her earrings sparkling in the poor lighting, smacking a wad of gum, one hand on her hip as if challenging them to find a flaw in her shapely body.

"Boss is good," Aldo chuckled, almost salivating.

"I dunno," frowned Tony. "Isn't this how they distract men in the movies?"

"You're comparin' a fine _mamacita_ to a Hollywood whore?" scoffed Aldo. He grabbed Araceli around her hips and yanked her right against him. It startled her slightly, but she played along. "Boss is good. Wouldn't it offend him if we didn't have a little fun?"

Araceli trailed a finger slowly down his chest. "It'd be a waste, wouldn't it? I drove all the way out here just for you boys." Her finger paused over a speck of blood. For a moment, her seductive mask cracked, showing the disgust and terror she buried deep down. She hid it with a cute pout. "But your shirt is messy. I don't like blood. Why don't you go change it?"

"No need." Aldo yanked the shirt over his head and showed off his solid ab muscles.

Al swung his arm out in furious protest. "Oh please! That's just so stereotypical." He turned to Araceli. "Don't fall for that! He's a meat-head, that's all."

"Impressive," Araceli purred, running her hands across the taut pectorals.

Al looked anguished at her choice. "You had better be laying it on thick, lady."

"So," she smiled to both men, "is it both of you together, or one at a time? Either way works for me." Her head lowered, and her dark eyes flashed beneath her eye shadow. "I'm here to please you."

"Laying it on a little too thick," Al grumbled.

"I don't share." Aldo yanked her to him possessively. "Tony can have ya after I'm done...if yer not too sore from 'Aldo Junior,' that is." He cackled lasciviously. "I've been known to break little dolls like ya."

In the other room, Sam jerked in protest. Sancho put a hand on his shoulder and whispered, "She's doing it for you, _señor_."

Suddenly the other handcuff came off. Sam had to move slowly, and Sancho helped him with the bandaged arm, rolled him over, and pulled him to sit up. Immediately, Sam realized his arm would not work anymore. He cradled it close to his body and swallowed down the nausea. The blood loss made him lightheaded. He could not recall eating anything since breakfast, and he lost track of how many times he vomited.

Sancho found a sweater lying to the side and tied it into a sling. "It'll have to do for now. I think this is your jacket. It should help with the shivering."

Meanwhile, Araceli was laying on the charm. "Do you boys have a separate room in this place, or will the couch have to suffice?"

Aldo gallantly held out his elbow and guided her to the back of the building. Tony watched in suspicion, but also jealousy. She was certainly a fine woman, likely trained in many ways of pleasure, and it had been such a long time since...

The bedroom door slammed shut. Tony tried to watch his TV show some more, but as a commercial came on his frustration percolated. He decided to work off some steam on his prisoner. He grunted at the noises in the other room—a whip crack, he knew the sound well...kinky bastard—and turned into the operating room. Tony's eyes met Sancho's just as he was fitting the leather jacket around Sam's shoulders.

"Oh boy," Sancho frowned.

Tony shouted for Aldo, but Araceli had already handcuffed him in rough playfulness. Now she stomped away, leaving him shouting, cursing, and kicking to break free. Tony ran for a gun on a table, but Araceli pulled one out of her purse, aimed, and shot him. She looked shocked at the kick of the weapon. It did not hit him fatally, but it would certainly stop him from pursuing.

"Let's go!" Sancho yelled. He grabbed Sam and helped him out.

Al followed them, doing a little dance of happiness. "This is great! This is awesome! Sweet-cakes," he said, reaching his arms out to embrace Araceli, only to have her walk through him. "I love you! I'm gonna look you up and tell you how much I love you. And you...whoever you are," he said to Sancho. "You're amazing. But how did you know where Sam was?"

That question bothered Sam too. "How did you know where I was?"

"Questions later," Sancho said, straining with Sam's weight.

There was a car waiting outside the condemned building. It was dark, and Sam saw that they were in the middle of nowhere with only a faint dirt path leading through the arid land. No street lights, no outside floodlights, nothing but the light shining through the windows of the building and millions of stars.

Sancho eased Sam into the back seat of a sedan, then hurried around to the driver's side. Araceli jumped into the back with Sam and pulled out a medical bag. It was small, not much in it, but she began patching his injuries.

"I've got some Vicodin in there," Sancho told her. "He'll need some."

She pulled out the bottle of pain killers, opened a plastic water bottle, and had Sam take the medicine. The unpaved road they drove on bumped them unmercifully. Each jolt was a new agony to Sam. He began to go pale and drift toward unconsciousness.

"Can't you go any smoother?" Araceli snapped, holding Sam to keep him from falling.

"Not until we hit the highway," he said in apology, more focused on keeping to the faint path in the dark than avoiding rocks in the road.

"Sam," Al said, sitting next to him in the backseat. "Lie down before you fall down. You've lost a lot of blood. I think we can trust these two, so just rest."

Sam moaned as they hit another lump. "Lie down," he mumbled.

Araceli scooted to the side and helped him rest in her lap. He laid on his side away from the arm that had been sliced up, and Araceli stroked his forehead in comfort.

Al watched them, or mostly watched Araceli's cleavage hanging right over Sam's face. He shook his head. "You lucky bastard."

"I'm so sorry I stole your bike," Araceli said miserably.

"This isn't your fault," Sam assured, hovering on the edge of unconsciousness and praying he could just drift off. "Why'd you come back?"

She chuckled softly and rubbed his hair back. "I found your money. You're bad news, _señor_."

Sam had to laugh. "Understatement," he muttered before his prayers were answered and he finally drifted off.

**End of Chapter 14**

* * *

><p><em>AN: "Northern Exposure" ran from 1990-95. On this day in history (February 15, 1995) the episode "Lucky People" aired. Yes, I researched what TV shows played on this day and time. I'm fanatical when it comes to details._

__Don Quixote, Dulcinea, and Sancho are from Miguel de Cervantes' "The Ingenious Gentleman Don Quixote of La Mancha." Watch the QL episode "Catch a Falling Star" for more info. Although I used the lyrics in the epigraph, those lyrics were in the TV show sung by Sam Beckett, so it falls under the whole "I don't own Quantum Leap" clause.__


	15. Walk the Girl Home

_"The ache for home lives in all of us, the safe place where we can go as we are and not be questioned." - Maya Angelou_

* * *

><p>Chapter 15<p>

**Walk the Girl Home**

Sam woke up to the whiff of air-conditioned coolness, potent antiseptics, and a sweetly floral perfume that reminded him of fields of sunflowers back home.

"Don't move," came a gentle female voice. Those sunflowers swayed closer. They even looked yellow and cheery.

"Araceli?" he asked.

"You slept a long time. It's Thursday afternoon. You're in my cabin at the Rainbow Inn."

Sam forced his eyes open and saw Araceli wearing a yellow shirt with billowing sleeves that fitted tightly on the wrists, with a deeply scooped neckline that teasingly showed the rim of a lacy black bra, ironically halting all temptation with a golden crucifix necklace. She still wore the spandex pants and heels that lit up with each step.

"This is Vicodin," she said, opening a medicine bottle. "Sancho said to give it to you as soon as you woke up."

Sam happily took the pain killer with a glass of water. He only wished it kicked in instantly.

"I owe you an apology and an explanation," she began. "I told you last night, but I'm not sure you were completely conscious. I bought a bike helmet like you said and went looking for you, but you weren't around. I waited until noon, then asked the innkeeper for you, but she said there was no one by the name of Sam Beckett staying here. Luckily, she remembered you and said you signed the paperwork as Theodore Nyt. That was fishy, I didn't want to get caught up in something bad so...well, I...sorta took your bike," she admitted sheepishly. "But," she added fast, "I gave the innkeeper the keys to my truck to give to you. I figured it wasn't stealing, but an even trade, your bike for my truck."

"My bike, that works perfectly, for your truck, which is broken and will take a week to get the parts," he pointed out.

She cringed away. "I know, but I was worried. A strange man buys me dinner, sets me up in a motel, gives me a thousand bucks, then offers to drive me home...and you gave a false name to the innkeeper. Or to me," she pouted. "So which is it? Theodore or Sam?"

"It's..." He paused and waffled over the answer. "...complicated," he sighed.

She accepted that in frustration. "So, I thought it was safest to get out of town fast. A lady at the Allsup warned me about some pervert that had been hanging around town since before you pulled in. Maybe that's why you took pity on me?"

"Something like that," he pouted, remembering what Al said about the original history, that Araceli had been raped and murdered.

"I figured, you were a nice guy, you'd understand. I even wrote you a letter telling you where to find me later, and I'd give the bike back at that time, even compensate you. I just had a bad feeling and wanted to get out of town."

"Probably for the best," he agreed. "So what changed your mind?"

"I got to Alamogordo and stopped for lunch. I got lost looking for a Carl's Jr., then it began drizzling, so I pulled over and searched your bags for a jacket. That's when I found...the money." She eyed him distrustfully. "You said before, you were a millionaire. I didn't think that might mean you had a few million _on you right now_. And you said you were heading to Mexico. I figured it must be stolen or some type of fraud, you might hunt me down, think I took your money, so I hurried back to apologize. When I arrived here, Sancho was hanging around the inn, like he was waiting for me. He told me you were in trouble, and he needed my help to save you. He made it sound...sort of exciting," she admitted with a blush, "like I was the heroine in some action movie. Then he said, by taking the bike, I had endangered you worse. I felt guilty," she confessed. "So I went with him and did whatever he told me to do. Such a stereotype, sending in the chick as a distraction, but neither one of us could come up with anything better. I'm glad it worked, but...I'm very sorry you got hurt so bad. If you could've given them the money..."

"They would've killed me," Sam said over her. "In a way, not being able to give them the money saved my life." He smiled warmly. "Thank you. You didn't have to help."

She looked aside and blushed. "I couldn't just leave you."

"Yes, you could've," he said. "And now I've gotten you involved. What happened to that other guy? How did he know I was there?"

"Sancho? I don't know how he knew. Maybe he followed them after they captured you. He said he was a friend of yours. You know him?"

"I...don't know," he admitted. He squinted his eyes against pain and lack of memories.

"Well, he's a doctor of some sort. I thought for sure you'd need a trip to the hospital, but he patched you up good. Not much we can do about the muscle that was removed, but he said it won't cause permanent damage. Whoever those bastards were, they weren't aiming to completely disable you. Then, a little after lunch, he left, just said everything would be fine with you, time was up for him, and he had to get back home."

"So, why are you still here? Why did you return? If you had my bike and the money, you should have stayed away."

"I may be a bad Catholic, but I'm not that bad," she said, folding her arms stubbornly. "So, who were those men? I hope they weren't the good guys."

Sam had to cough out a laugh despite the pain. "Would good guys do all this?"

She peered over his beaten face, then looked out her window. "So, what's your story? I told you what's up with me, living in my truck and all. If we're gonna ride together, I should know about you."

Ride together? Did she really still trust him that much? Then he saw that her eyes were not just diverted, they were searching. He guessed there must still be people looking for him.

"They're with the Mafia," he confessed. "I did some stupid things, and now they're after me."

"Stupid things? Like the money?"

"Yeah...the money."

Araceli nodded, contemplating this new information. "You didn't kill anyone, right?"

"No." At least, he hoped not. Theodore Nyt did not seem the type. "But they killed...someone close to me. I don't want you getting involved in all this."

"Chivalrous, but I'm already involved. Those two got a good look at me. I couldn't find a place that sells wigs, and my hair is so short, I can't really cut it, but I tried to style it differently."

Sam could not be sure on the style, since she had been wearing a hat before.

"There were people searching the motel rooms earlier. I don't think they realized these detached units were part of the inn. Still, they could return."

"Then you should go," he insisted. "Take the bike, take the money even, I don't care about it anymore. Just get out of town and be safe."

"I can't just leave you," she sighed. "Look, you can't ride with your arm like that, but I can. You can hold on with one arm. So once you can move around, we'll leave, me riding the bike, you holding on. When we get to Socorro, we'll figure out what to do from there."

Sam saw a flash as the Imaging Chamber door opened and Al stepped out wearing a strikingly bright turquoise shirt with a glaring red tie that made the eyes twitch just looking at it.

"Sam, I know you're likely in a world of pain, but those bastards are coming back for another sweep of the place. Ziggy says this time they'll find you two."

Sam sat up in the bed. His shirt was gone, and a bandage was wrapped around his trunk to support the broken rib. The Vicodin must have started working, because he did not feel quite as much pain as he figured he should.

"What are you doing?" she pouted.

"We have to get out of here," he insisted. "Where are my clothes?"

"We have your jacket. I don't know about your shirt. It was gone when we found you. Your room was thrashed by those Mafia goons. If you can wait, I'll go buy a shirt for you."

"No time!" shouted Al.

"Just give me one of yours," Sam said, forcing himself up. They might be in a rush, but a trip to the bathroom was mandatory.

Al followed him in. "You have maybe five minutes, Sam. The good news is, Ziggy says there's an 80% chance that the reason you're here is, not to make sure Theodore Nyt makes it to Mexico, but to save Araceli de la Rosa and get her home to her parents."

Sam still felt unsteady. Looking in the mirror, he saw that one side of Theodore's face was swollen, his eye was puffy and purple, and he had an anemic look to him now. "Since when have these Leaps been about 'walking the girl home'?" he mused, trying to cheer himself up and take his mind off the bloodied bandages around his arm. "However, I'm sort of glad. Having my goal to be something noble, not just running away, feels better."

"Feels better?" That was so typical of Sam, Al had to laugh. "I swear, you think you're a knight errant."

Sam remembered what the man last night said, calling himself Sancho, Araceli was Dulcinea, and saying Sam was their Don Quixote. "Does Ziggy know anything about this guy Sancho?"

"Not a thing. Sancho's not exactly a rare name, and it could even be a moniker. Ziggy attempted a facial analysis, but it came up with nothing. Who knows!" laughed Al. "Maybe he's another guardian angel."

When Sam exited the bathroom, Araceli already had her things packed. She held out a teeshirt with an apologetic look. "It's the largest I have. I usually sleep in it, but it should work."

Sam took the gray shirt with two baby white tigers cuddled together in an adorable pose. Al burst into laughter. Araceli shrugged again and muttered that she was sorry.

"It's...cute," Sam said, forcing a grin.

**End of Chapter 15**

* * *

><p><em>AN: I have this white tiger cubs teeshirt. I use it as an over-sized nightshirt. It really is cute and comfortable._

_Araceli got lost looking for Carl's Jr. because there are none in Alamogordo. They have about every fast food joint you can imagine, but when you're craving that portobello six-dollar burger, McDonald's just won't cut it. (Now I'm hungry!)_


	16. Desert Life Flashing By

_"In the desert you can remember your name_  
><em>'Cause there ain't no one for to give you no pain.<em>"  
><em>- America, "Horse With No Name"<em>

* * *

><p>Chapter 16<p>

**Desert Life Flashing By**

_The desert—a patch of earth torrefied by the sun, then beaten and molded to keep sustaining life where logic dictates that none should exist._

_We were now in the Tularosa Basin, the Sacramento Mountains to our left, the Oscura Mountains to our right, holding back the moisture like twin dams. Between us and them were seas of gleaming white gypsum sand dunes, rocky basins, stunted creosoto bushes, and spiky yucca trees that shot up from the otherwise flat landscape. Somewhere to our right, the Carrizozo Malpais, a lava flow of pitch black rock, stretched for miles. Beyond it was Holloman Air Force Base._

_At first glance, it looked lifeless, yet a musician once sang that the desert is filled with 'plants and birds and rocks and things, sand and hills and rings.' I knew this desert well. I had lived here for many years working on the Starbright Project, then on Project Quantum Leap. I knew how full of life the desert can be if you know where to look. Especially during this time of year, late winter, when the higher elevations get snow that melts and drips down into this endorheic basin, where no water flows out._

_As I held onto Araceli's waist, I got to look at the scenery more. Most people consider this to be a boring stretch of road, nothing to see, no curves in the road, almost no traffic, yet the speed limit is a surprisingly slow 55 mph. For me, it was enjoyably nostalgic. Araceli turned out to really know how to ride. I half-expected her to toss out some jujitsu motorcycling tricks just to show off, yet she continued onward gently, aware of my pain. She avoided bumps in the road, and every ten minutes she called back to make sure I was all right._

_I really was helpless. I knew I had to ignore my pain for now, focus everything on getting Araceli home safely and not involve her with the Mafia anymore. That was my ticket to Leap. Would my body still be injured in the next Leap? I didn't know, and Al gave me only vague answers. From them, I deduced that Ziggy wasn't sure either._

_I prayed that Leaping meant jumping out of this agony. Perhaps while my body laid in limbo for weeks or months between Leaps, I could heal, or perhaps I would Leap back in with a perfectly healthy body again. No one knew what would happen. This would be another discovery for the Project, and I was the unwitting guinea pig._

_It was forty-four miles to Tularosa, where we stopped. It might seem odd to stop after less than an hour, but Araceli wanted to check my bandages. She took this whole 'taking care of me' thing seriously. Plus, it was another half hour to the next town. Honestly, resting just ten minutes in Tularosa was helpful. I dreaded to think that our drive, which should only take three hours, would be extended by stopping in each town big enough to have a dive diner. Yet at the same time, I was thankful for her company and tender touch._

* * *

><p>Araceli carefully replaced the bloody bandages around Sam's arm. She was thankful that Sancho at least left his first-aid kit and medication for her before disappearing. This stranger needed a hospital, a real nurse to care for wounds like this, but she supposed for a wanted man like him that was out of the question. At least, not until he got into Mexico.<p>

"So," she said, trying to stay conversational, "you didn't really answer me last time, but what do I call you?"

He thought about it for a while.

"What, can't remember your name?" she teased.

"No," he said in a fluster, "I remember it, I just...just..."

She watched his face contort. He had a habit of looking off and staring intently at something invisible. What a mystery of a man!

"Sam," Al warned, "you can't give her your real name. What if she talks about you? What if the Mafia gets wind of _your_ name? If they think the _you_ of 1995 was somehow involved, this could seriously jeopardize your life, let alone whether or not you make that first Leap a few months from now."

Sam knew he was right. Although he missed being called by his own name, it was probably foolish to do so... especially here... especially at this time in history.

"My name is Theodore Nyt." He cringed a little as he said it. "Sam Beckett...is someone I heard about, someone who lives around here. I didn't want to give you my real name, just in case."

"In case I was associated with the Mafia," she nodded, accepting that excuse. "So, is Sam Beckett a friend of yours?"

"No!" Al yelled at him. "You can't be associated with him...with you...with...you know what I mean!" he shouted in frustration.

"He's a scientist who works...somewhere in New Mexico." He almost said at Stallion's Gate, but that was too much information. "Like I said, it's just someone I heard about." Even to himself, he did not sound convincing.

"Words," she whispered, then looked up to him with a beaming smile that hid a streak of sadness in her dark eyes. "'Words are all we have.'"

He nodded. "Samuel Beckett. 'Every word is like an unnecessary stain on silence and nothingness.' Especially in this land of emptiness, words are stains, and even treacherous. If it had been you caught and not me, and if you said my name was Sam Beckett, the real Sam sitting somewhere in his laboratory could have been in danger."

"Good, Sam!" Al applauded. "Good, good."

"Don't worry, I wouldn't have said anything anyway, and I won't mention the poor sap who got named after an Irish playwright."

That made Al snort as he tried not to laugh. "Poor sap," he repeated.

"So, Theodore," she said, completely putting the matter of names behind her, "does the bandage feel okay? Not too tight?"

"Yeah, feels great."

"You don't sound convincing," she said, arms akimbo, challenging him to speak the truth for once.

"No, it really does," he assured. He realized he sounded depressed. Giving up his name was harder than he figured it should be. He had thought, in this land, a place that was home not too long ago in his mind, getting back his name would help him get a step closer to remembering his full identity. "Sorry, I...I've just got a lot on my mind."

"I bet! Well, if you're feeling better, you can do your thinking on the road."

They climbed back onto the Harley. Sam held around her skinny waist with one arm and tucked the other in safely so it was not jarred or received pressure from the wind as they sped down Highway 54. He blushed to lean into her so closely, becoming entangled with her sunflower perfume.

"Theodore," she called back, shouting over the rumble of the engine. "Maybe once life settles down for you, you can look me up and I'll pay you back...you know, for the motel and the money...and this trip home."

He smiled at the thought, but he realized a sleezeball like Theodore Nyt should stay far away from a girl like her. "You don't owe me anything. Rescuing me, driving me home, taking care of me...if anything I owe _you_."

"Then maybe you can come back and treat me to a nice dinner." She laughed happily.

Sam smiled that she was enjoying herself. He squeezed her waist a little closer and leaned against her back.

This trip would be over far too soon.

**End of Chapter 16**

* * *

><p><em>AN: Oh, how wrong he is! This trip has plenty of adventures to come. The quote Sam gives about desert life is from the same song as the opening quote. I do not own the lyrics to the songs written by the band "America." If they wish me to remove these lyrics, I will comply.  
><em>


	17. Alamogordo

_"This is the sense of the desert hills, that there is room enough and time enough." - Mary Austin_

* * *

><p>Chapter 17<p>

**Alamogordo**

Together, Sam and Araceli rode south until they reached Alamogordo. It was larger than any of the towns Sam had driven through so far, and everywhere it showed signs of expansion. It was the gateway city into Holloman Air Force Base, so many service people lived off-base in the city, and some retired Air Force veterans wanted to stay in the growing city they had come to love.

Araceli hummed as she inspected gas prices. Then she saw one station ahead with a decent price. "When did you last refill?"

"Socorro," Sam answered, thinking back to that stop and the Mafia shooting at him. It felt like such a long time ago.

"It's cheaper here. I never go below a quarter tank, especially when driving through the countryside." She pulled into the Diamond Shamrock gas station and to an empty pump.

"I'll fill up," Sam told her, knowing she had only the money he gave her. "How about we eat while we're here?" He glanced around. They had passed many promising places along the main road. "Little Caesar, KFC, or Rocket National Buffet?"

"I want you to sit, so let's do the Chinese buffet thing."

Sam smiled at her terse words. "You want _me_ to sit?"

"Well, I don't want you bleeding everywhere," she said in excuse. "Besides, to be honest, I could use a soft seat. Your bike really does kill my ass. I'll get us a table. It's next door, so just walk the bike over. But be careful!" With that, she walked off fast. A little too fast. Sam figured she also picked the buffet because it was closest and most likely to have clean bathrooms.

Al cocked his head as he watched her. "Oh, how I would _love_ to massage that aching tush."

"Al!" Sam snapped, yet even a good farm boy like him could not help but watch how those tights accented her curves. Sam walked into the small store and dug out his wallet. "Fill up on Premium." Since it was not his money, he figured he might as well get the good stuff.

"Nice bike," smiled the scraggly man at the cash register. "Nice dame on your bike, too. You'll need that arm looked at...just warnin' ya," he said with a nod to Sam's injury.

He looked over and saw the bleeding had soaked the bandage again. No wonder he felt lightheaded. Sam ignored it for now and handed over a hundred dollar bill.

"Whoa, sorry, sonny." He pointed to a sign on the counter. _No bills over $20 accepted._

"Seriously?" Sam grimaced. He checked the wallet deeper. Hundreds, a couple fifties, two fives, and three ones...not enough small bills to pay. "Okay, I'm gonna need to break this. I'll be back."

Al stopped staring at a display of cigars and looked around in confusion. "Whoa, are we not paying?"

"No cash over twenty," Sam grumbled as he walked back to the door.

"Wait, Sam. We're strapped on time, y'know, and you're stumbling from blood loss. Why go through the hassle? You have the money. Pay the guy a bribe to take a hundred."

"You _would_ think of something as low as bribery," he hissed in irritation.

"I'm thinking of a little hot tamale sitting alone in a restaurant, totally undefended."

Sam paused near the door and considered it. If it was just himself, he would never agree to it, but he had to think of Araceli now. He did not like the idea of her sitting alone where she could be nabbed by the Mafia. Ethically, it was wrong, of course. Then again, the existence of that money was wrong. Redistributing it was more noble.

He walked back to the counter and leaned in conspiratorially. "How much for you to take the money?"

The man looked as if he no longer understood English. "Not a question of accepting it. I can't. Our register doesn't even have a slot for hundreds."

"You get lunch breaks, right? I'm in a hurry, so let's say you took the cash _in order the get smaller bills for me_. Ah, what a gentleman, right?" he said, forcing himself to wink, as he imagined was likely appropriate. "That deserves a reward. So let's just say, as a reward for your loyalty to customers, I simply told you to 'keep the change.' Now, if you happen to break this hundred on your lunch break, I surely won't say anything. What say you?" He felt slick and dirty just acting this way, yet a deep part of him realized this was precisely something Theodore Nyt would have done. "I'll even give you some extra." He pulled out the fifty and laid it on the counter. "Yours if you don't tell anyone that you ever saw me pass through here."

The poor man stared at that hundred and fifty as if he had never seen money like that before in his life, and those pieces of paper meant salvation. He looked left and right, then snatched away both. "Fill up on tank three. Have a nice day, sir."

Sam tipped his head, then walked out with a sour face. "I feel dirty."

"It's Mafia money, Sam," Al reasoned. "That guy could probably use it to feed his family."

"It's still wrong."

Sam filled up the tank, looking over his shoulder many times. Then he walked the bike over to the restaurant. Inside, he easily found Araceli, went to the buffet, and filled up on peppered steak, steamed vegetables, crab rangoons, and green tea. It was a quiet lunch, neither speaking much, mostly not even looking at each other. He listened to the softly playing music instead and began humming along.

They went to the buffet for seconds. Sam got more meat, realizing he needed the protein after so much blood loss. Once they were done, Sam gave the waitress two hundreds. "Change in twenties for this, please," he requested with a gleaming smile. She smacked her gum, nodded laconically, and took the money to the cash register. "Good lunch," he complimented to Araceli.

"Sorry if I'm bad company."

"What?" he asked in surprise. "Why do you say that?"

"You hardly spoke."

"I'm tired."

"You should see a doctor."

"If you know one who's no-questions-asked and accepts cash, I'll do it."

She pouted and stirred her coffee. "None around here. A little down the road, though..."

Somewhere behind him, Sam heard the voice of someone talking fast on a cellphone to hurry up before it was deemed rude. "Yes, we're at Rocket. Okay, Al, we'll meet you here. Ten minutes? Perfect! Yes, yes. Not a problem. Sam Beckett out." He pressed the power button and hung the massive cellphone onto his belt, where it laid like a giant brick. "They're coming. You're not upset?"

"Of course not, Sam."

That far-too-familiar voice, mixed with a woman saying that particular name, made both Sam and Al look sharply behind them. Unfortunately, the voices came from an angle he could not see.

"I'm heading to the lady's room, dear," came the woman's voice.

Al turned pale. "That was today?" he gasped. Al rushed straight through two tables to angle himself, just in time to see the Sam Beckett of 1995 give a cute kiss to Donna.

"I'll get your Mongolian barbecue started," Sam smiled to her.

"You know what I want?"

"The usual, right?"

She wrinkled her nose in a laugh and kissed his cheek. "This is why I love you," she whispered, aware that they were in public.

"Oh...shit," Al gaped. His fingers clutched his hair in frustration. "Not good, not good...shit!"

At his table, Sam saw himself...a younger self, but not by many years. For him, that was the same face he had last viewed in his own bathroom mirror, precisely how he remembered himself looking.

"Theodore?" Araceli asked. "Didn't that man say he was Sam Beckett? Is that the man you admire so much?"

The Sam from 1995 heard her and glanced over. "Do you...know me?" He glanced at the seated couple, checking them out up and down, but did not recognize either.

"I...uh..." Sam was at a loss how to explain.

Al was fast on the uptake. "Tell him you saw him in Time Magazine. They called you the next Einstein."

"Ah, right! I, uh...saw that article in Time Magazine. Next Einstein, you know."

Araceli jolted. "He's that smart?"

1995-Sam blushed a little. "Oh, that. Silly thing, really. They just wanted a name everyone would recognize, but Einstein was in a totally different league than me."

Al waved his hand. "You're being modest."

Sam repeated him exactly since he had no idea what to say to...himself!

"No, really. Those magazine people were just misled by our PR department. But thanks anyway. You work around here? Are you into string theory? Or just looking for a job? We're rather short-staffed where I'm at now and looking for people who know what they're doing."

"Damn," Al cringed. "I forgot this was the time period where you were looking to hire more people. You were even asking total strangers...like this," he realized.

"Ah, no," Sam laughed lightly. "I mean, new technology...uh, _intrigues_ me, but...no, I'm a lawyer, not a scientist."

"Oh, too bad," he pouted. "We already have one or two of those."

"One or two?" laughed Al. "Oh Sam, you have _no_ idea who works there beyond the crew in the lab."

"Well," the doppelganger shrugged, "thanks for taking an interest. Have a nice day." He continued to the buffet table, grabbed a bowl, and loaded up on peppered steak, steamed vegetables, and crab rangoons. He brought that bowl to a table, humming along to the music. Then he went to get Donna's bowl ready for the Mongolian barbecue.

Araceli leaned across the table. "He seems like a nice guy. Very humble. No wonder you admire him."

"Thanks," Sam said, watching his past self glance through the food selection.

"He even ordered the same thing as you," Araceli whispered. "And he hums like you do. You sure you're not cousins? Then again, you don't look anything alike."

"Lots of people like rangoons," Sam muttered, feeling uncomfortable at this proximity.

The waitress came back to their table with a receipt and his change. Sam left a generous tip, then hurried out before things got any more complicated. However, Araceli excused herself to the ladies' room. Sam stepped outside for fresh air and a fast talk with Al.

"What am I...he...doing here? What's going on?" Sam demanded in an urgent whisper, glancing through the window to where his past self sat. "I don't remember going out to eat. I don't even recognize this restaurant. I should recognize it, right? I've been recalling everything else, but not this place."

"I guess she liked this place," Al shrugged. "It's near the base and close to where you live, after all."

"She?" Sam asked in confusion.

Al opened his mouth but froze. If Sam did not remember Rocket National Buffet, it must have been a place partial to Donna alone. So of course he would not remember, since any memory of this place would trigger memories of who he had dined with. He began mentally cussing as only a Navy man can. "You and...well...she's, um, someone from work, and I...we went here sometimes and...we'd send Gooshie to grab Chinese takeout on hectic days. I can't talk about stuff at the Project, you know. Rules and all." Al cringed back, knowing that sounded immensely lame. This was just another Chinese restaurant, after all. It had _nothing_ to do with Project Quantum Leap.

Inside, over by the ladies' restroom, just as Araceli was about to reach for the door, Donna stepped out. "Oh!" the lovely woman smiled, jolting back. "So sorry."

"It's fine," Araceli assured. "Hey, aren't you the lady with that man, Beckett?"

"Doctor Beckett, yes. He's my husband." She blushed with happiness at just the mention of him, what Araceli understood to mean a deep love for her man.

"Really? My friend admires him more than he likes to admit. I'm not sure what Doctor Beckett does, honestly, but...well, he seems like a nice man. Let him know he has an admirer."

"Certainly I will," Donna grinned. "We work hard and almost never get a chance to go out like this, you know, away from the lab and out into _normal_ society." She gave a soft laugh at the idea that she and her husband were so abnormal. "So any little bit of encouragement helps. Why, my husband went to the nearby university, and there was some young man in the audience who apparently understood his string theory concepts so well, it inspired Sam to write a thesis, _Wards of Time_. That's one your friend should look for. It's not published yet, but it will be soon. Sam put so much heart into that thesis."

"I'll let Theodore know," Araceli nodded. "I'll let you get to your husband now. Pardon the intrusion."

"Oh, not at all, dear!" Donna beamed. She even held the door open for Araceli to walk through.

Araceli walked by, but she paused to watch that genteel woman stride with a refined sashay, something elegant and reserved at the same time. Donna walked to the table and sat with her back to the window. Araceli could not hear what they said, but apparently Donna approved of the menu choice and congratulated her husband with a kiss.

"Such a nice couple," she said, feeling a twinge of jealousy.

Just outside the window, she saw the man who had rescued her, his back to the restaurant, and although she could not see it from her angle, Sam was in the middle of a robust conversation. That man too was gentle and courteous, such a completely different type of person from the men she knew.

"I wish I could get a guy like them," she sighed, then turned into the bathroom.

Five minutes later, Sam stopped his animate discussion when he heard Araceli's heels clicking out the door. He gave one last look back to the booth where his doppelganger sat. He saw himself and the back of some woman who faced the wrong way.

"She's a nice lady," Araceli said. "Oh, she said to watch for some work Doctor Beckett wrote called _Wards of Time_. Apparently it'll be out soon and is quite good."

"Of course she'd say that," Al chuckled.

Sam looked back to the restaurant again, but no matter how he squinted, there was no way to see the face of the woman at the table.

Who was she? Al refused to say. Just someone from the Project? Someone he was dating? No, that couldn't be! When would he have had time for things like dating? Likely just a coworker. Wondering who was pointless, unless he went back inside and spied on them. That was rude. Whenever he got his memory back, he would surely remember then. For now, he needed to get Araceli home.

"Let's go! _Vamanos_," she called out.

He straddled the bike, Araceli climbed up front, and she started the engine with a roar. Sam glanced back as they drove off. Although they angled the right way for a couple seconds, the sun was in just the right position to glare on the window and block the woman's face. He never did find out who was sitting with his old self.

Back in the restaurant, 1995-Sam watched the slick-looking man and Latina lady pull out of the parking lot with a kick of dust.

"He was injured badly," he said to Donna. "If we weren't here to eat, I would have preferred to examine him."

"Dear, that's normally considered rude," she reprimanded but smiled at his eternally altruistic attitude. "It's the medical doctor in you. You always want to help everyone. You get your greatest joy that way. The girl with him is nice, though. We talked a little in the ladies' room. A woman like her will make sure he takes care of himself."

Sam reached across the table, took her hand, and stroked her fingers. "Like you take care of me?"

She chuckled softly, leaned forward, and gave him a kiss. "I try, dear...I try! And I will always be here, ready to rescue you when you take your work too far." Just then, another couple joined them. "Al! Tina! Glad you could make it."

Al sat on Sam's side, and Tina sat beside Donna. "Hiya, Sam," Tina grinned. "Gooshie's running a diagnostic, so we're useless until that's done."

Al loosened a blue and orange checkered tie that clashed with his purple and green striped shirt. "We figured we'd get some air and a bit of real food. Remind me to bring bowls for Gooshie and Verbeena. By the way, have you found a new chef? The one we have in the cafeteria is horrible."

"Sorry, no," Sam laughed. "I did meet a lawyer just now."

"Nah, got plenty of those," Al waved off, not liking the idea of lawyers. "Ooh, Mongolian barbecue! Maybe you should recruit the guy who works here."

**End of Chapter 17**

* * *

><p><em>AN: I've never been to Rocket National Buffet, so I'm unsure of the setup, other than Chinese buffet with a Mongolian BBQ station. I'm winging it here._ ^_^


	18. The Bullet That Traveled Across 2 States

_"Certainly, travel is more than the seeing of sights; it is a change that goes on, deep and permanent, in the ideas of living." - Miriam Beard_

* * *

><p>Chapter 18<p>

**The Bullet That Traveled Across Two States**

It was an hour riding through the desert from Alamogordo to the Texas border, most of it surrounded by the White Sands Missile Range with nothing else in view for miles. Sam almost forgot how massive the military land was, covering 3,200 square miles. In their early days of working at Stallion's Gate, he had once joked with Al that the missile range was bigger than some European countries. In fact, it was bigger than Luxembourg, Liechtenstein, Malta, Monaco, San Marino, and Vatican City combined. After spending the past few days just driving around it, it certainly felt like traveling through an entire country...a very familiar country.

As Sam began feeling dizzy again, he leaned against Araceli's back. She was warm and smelled good despite the sweat from the noon sun. With her here, he felt safe, and at the same time he felt a need to protect her.

What would happen after everything was over? Could Araceli stay off the radar of those Mafia goons? Would she be hunted even after he was gone? He wanted to ask Al, but he could not start talking with Araceli right there.

"You're starting to look adorable, Sam. Quit it!" Al teased.

Sam rolled his eyes a little. Adorable? Well, why not! She was a lovely lady, and she was nice enough to help him escape from the Mafia. If not for her...he didn't want to think about what tortures awaited him. She was his savior.

"_Mi salvadora_," he whispered with a gentle smile, hugging her a little closer.

Al pouted at this affection. He knew full well who was waiting back home for him. Granted, if he was in Sam's place, Al would be all over this _chica bonita_. He could hardly blame Sam for going a little gaga over those gazongas. "I'll leave you two alone. Lunch time for me. Try to remember why you're here, Sam. Keep her safe, get her home."

Sam only glanced over as the white door slid open and Al disappeared behind it. That was home. Just beyond that white door. How many times had he wished he could step through that mysterious door and back into his real life? But this time, he liked being right where he was.

It was just the two of them now, but Sam had no idea what to talk about. Feeling so dizzy, he did not really want to shout over the engine. An hour passed in silence. He was content holding onto her. His ear pressing against her back heard that she was humming some song he did not know. He wished she would sing aloud so he could know the words. Even if they were in Spanish, he would understand. He just wanted to hear her voice.

He looked aside and chided himself. Here she was, risking her life to help out a total stranger, and he was getting weird thoughts about her perfume and soft skin. Perhaps traveling alone for so long was getting to him. Maybe all this Leaping, always helping others, only to land in a situation where someone had to help him, put him off-guard. It felt odd, being the one some stranger helped out of their own good nature. Odd...and enjoyable.

Finally they began seeing signs for the State border.

"Almost to Texas," Sam sighed in relief. Just another hour and Araceli would be safe. Then he had only himself to worry about and his task of crossing the perilous Mexican border.

It was sad to think of leaving her behind, but he wanted her to be safe. He wanted the Leap to be over. He prayed, once he was out of Theodore Nyt's life, he would not have to worry about this lingering pain again. He could move on to the next task, always hoping to Leap home.

This Leap got him so close...so very close!

Maybe...just maybe...the next Leap would be...

That feeling of hope was shattered by a gunshot. The bike swerved as Araceli flinched hard, but she managed to regain control.

"You hit?" Sam shouted in dread.

"No...I don't think so. Just scared me. _Ai pendejo_, is that them?"

Sam looked behind him. With the highway so empty, it was easy to see the black sedan racing up on their tail. "Faster!" he shouted.

A white flash of a sliding door, and Al appeared looking like he had been running. "Sam!"

"I'm okay," he said as another gunshot fired at them.

"Sam, you have a gun in your saddlebags. You need to get it. You must protect Araceli at all costs."

"Keep driving," he ordered her. Then, with one hand holding her waist, he twisted around to the bags bulging on the sides of the motorcycle. The broken rib cracked and shot pain all through his torso. Sam cried out in agony he thought he had forgotten, but he managed to turn all the way around.

"What the hell are you doing?" Araceli yelled at his pained cry.

He could hardly breathe in this position. There was no way he could grit through the pain and answer her. He pulled the Walther handgun out and aimed behind him.

"Al," he panted, already beginning to sweat with agony. "I can't turn around to shoot."

"Okay, I'll aim for you. A little down. No too far. Okay, to the right...more...more...down...there, fire!"

Sam pulled the trigger. The recoil threw his badly-angled hand forward, and his elbow slammed into Araceli's back. She yelled, and the bike went out of control.

"_¡Hijo de perra!_" she screamed in profanity. "Warn me!"

"Sorry," Sam cringed. Now it felt like his shoulder was out of socket, and he could not hear out of his left ear. "I'm gonna shoot again. I can't stop the recoil, though."

"Just warn me," she said with a stern face, crouched down and racing the bike as fast as she could push it.

The men behind them fired three shots. One hit the bike, but it only did superficial damage. Still, the sound of those shots drove fear into Araceli. Sam felt her breathing growing erratic.

"_¿Qué estoy haciendo? ¿En qué me conseguí? Tan solo quiero ir a casa._" What am I doing? What did I get myself into? I only want to go home.

"_Lo siento mucho. Perdóname_." I'm very sorry. Forgive me. Sam said this apology with a sense of grief. It was all he could say for getting her involved in all this, and yet it was not enough for endangering her life.

Al talked Sam through aiming again. Because Sam could not even twist to get a straight-on, single-handed aim, he was attempting to shoot over his left shoulder. Al knew that had _got_ to hurt. The Walther's .380 caliber made for a more gentle recoil than something with more power, something Al was used to from his days in the Navy, but still, to feel that thrust at such an odd angle...

"Firing," Sam warned Araceli. Again the recoil thrust his elbow into Araceli's back. She cussed in Spanish but kept going.

"You hit them that time," Al congratulated. It wasn't a good hit, nothing to slow them down, but to hit anything at all was a miracle, especially on a moving bike, shooting blindly over his shoulder like that.

Sam's left ear was deaf. Turning his head to hear out of the other ear, he listened to Al, who stared down his twisted arm and kept telling him "down" and "to the right." Finally, he was lined up as well as could be hoped.

"Firing!" Sam warned, and pulled the trigger.

This time, he hit Araceli in the back of the neck.

The bike went out of control. Sam heard three more return shots and felt a sting to his shoulder. At the same time, the bike slid to the side and wiped out into the orange dust on the side of the highway.

Sam went rolling, thrown off the bike immediately, and just barely missed getting caught in the back wheel. Rocks and bramble jabbed and slashed him. Only the leather jacket kept him from getting torn up. He did not see where Araceli landed, but they were right in front of a restaurant, just over the Texas border.

Sam got up to one knee, the best he could manage. He gripped his handgun and steadied his aching wrist. He felt dizzy and shook out his head. His vision swam in bubbles of darkness. Many of his injuries had reopened in the crash, and bleeding even more was not helping his anemic numbness.

He saw the black sedan pull over and two men jump out. He fired three shots. One hit, but the man only paused to hold the wound, then kept walking forward calmly, not even rushing. They had caught their prey.

Sam fired again, but he was out of bullets. He pulled the trigger three more times, then he panicked. He thought for sure a Walther PPK had seven rounds. Had Theodore Nyt fired it once already? No, he remembered now... Araceli had fired on that man named Tony the Chopper. He hated to realize he had not checked the gun beforehand and reloaded.

He looked around, praying Araceli was far enough away not to be noticed. He would go with these thugs, so long as they didn't touch her.

Tony, however, had not forgotten the wound. "There's the bitch who shot me."

"Leave her alone!" Sam shouted.

Then he heard another gunshot, something different, more explosive. He looked to the left. A biker gang had rushed out of the restaurant. With them was what Sam would call a cowboy, and he had a shotgun raised and ready to fire again.

"You botherin' these two?" he shouted.

The men in suits made the mistake of turning their guns on the interlopers. The seven bikers and cowboy opened fire. Through his dreamlike numbness, Sam saw the two Mafia men drop.

Was it over?

Sam slumped. His shoulder burned. He was bleeding out the front too. Had the bullet passed straight through? He worried if it had hit Araceli.

"Araceli!" he shouted, and clambered in the direction of the skid marks over the dusty desert sand. He found the bike, and a few feet away he found Araceli twisted in a bad position. Her black tights were torn, and her leg had a badly bleeding gash. "Oh God, no!"

A man came up behind him. "We'll see to your lady," the old cowboy told him.

"And we'll see about your bike," one of the biker gang men said, already pulling the Harley upright.

"Don't worry about those two," another man told him. "I know the sheriff. Self-defense, and we got plenty of witnesses. We'll keep you two out of the story, if you want."

"Out of...? Y-yeah," Sam realized, shaking the black spots out of his head. "Yeah, I...I don't want cops around. I don't want her to be involved in this at all. She has nothing to do with this, she was just helping me when I got hurt." He tried to look over to where these Good Samaritans had clustered around Araceli. "How...how is she?"

"I'm fine," Araceli said, sounding like she was just waking up. "Just hurts a bit. What happened? Are those bad men gone?"

"Bad men?" someone around them laughed. "Does that make us heroes?"

"Whelp," another person chuckled just as Sam began to black out, "you two look like you have a helluva story to tell!"

"Story?" Sam mumbled.

"Sam. Sam!" Al shouted, walking through the crowd to be by his side. "Don't pass out right now, Sam. It's not safe yet. Don't you dare..."

"_Lo siento...mucho_..." Sam muttered as his cheek hit the gritty sand.

**End of Chapter 18**

* * *

><p><em>AN: Originally, Sam and Araceli ended up at the Edge of Texas Steakhouse and Saloon. I wrote the final crash scene using that restaurant, and the "cowboy" was supposed to be Mr. Bowen himself, a rancher and owner of the steakhouse. Then, while researching visual clues, I discovered that the restaurant did not open until 1997._

_... damn ..._

_I tried to look up what was in that location, Hwy 54 on the New Mexico/Texas border, in 1995. Unfortunately, hours of researching maps and Yellow Pages from 1995 turned up nothing. The internet apparently doesn't "know all and see all." Instead of freaking out over it, I'm letting it go. It's "a restaurant" on the border. I don't even know if anything existed there in 1995, but for now, this serves my purpose. If anyone happens to know what was located on that site before the Edge of Texas Steakhouse and Saloon opened its doors, if you tell me then I will praise you with songs of glory. Knowing my luck, it was all dirt and rocks._

_You can probably figure it out but since I was already asked, the Spanish phrases Araceli shouts that I don't translate are various profanities. You can google them if you're curious._


	19. Medicine Man

"_The desert has its holiness of silence..." - Walter Elliot_

* * *

><p>Chapter 19<p>

**Medicine Man**

"Tío! Tío, he's awake."

"Get Doctor Sanchez."

"Sanchez, the gringo's awake."

"Don't call him that, _mijo_."

Sam heard these voices around him as consciousness wavered and struggled to climb through the mental fogginess. He felt hands on him and forced his eyes open. They were blurred and too dry to keep open for long. He briefly saw a man in a suit with long black hair. Hands moved on him, checking vitals and inspecting injuries.

"My medicine seems to be working. He needs more water; it'll make him quite dehydrated. B.P. is still low. He may need a transfusion."

"I'm sorry, Doctor Sanchez. This is all we have."

"Hmm. Señorita Araceli said he couldn't go to a hospital, right? Well, then this is all I can do. A shame it's so little." The doctor laughed lightly. "After all this, I feel so useless."

"Not at all, Doctor Sanchez." This was Araceli's voice. "You saved his life, and you cared for me so well. Tío is right, you're a blessing sent by Santa María."

"No, it's not Our Lady who sends me, _mija_, although sometimes I feel a greater power guides me. Let him rest. Are you able to stay here overnight? Do you have anywhere you must be?"

"Well, I'd like to make it to El Paso tomorrow. It's not far. I can even call someone to pick me up if he can't be moved."

"I'll drive you," Sam said, his words slurred but firm in their determination. "I said I'd get you home. I've been failing you this whole time, so at the very least...I'll drive you home."

He smelled her sunflower perfume move closer. "That's sweet of you, Theodore, but I'm not sure you'll be able to sit up by tomorrow, let alone drive."

Sam squeezed some liquid into his eyelids, enough so he could open them and see a little. He saw four people around him, the old cowboy, a young boy of about eleven, a man in his late-forties with long black hair pulled back standing by a sink with his back to Sam, and Araceli holding his hand, sitting close, looking at him with worry creasing her brow.

Sam smiled and squeezed her hand. "It's my duty to get you home safe."

"Your duty?" The long-haired doctor looked back to them. He had a gentle smile that puckered a scar on his chin and lifted his mustache. "Yes, Mr. Nyt. You have a duty. So do I. My duty is for you to do your duty. Hopefully, I've done my duty." With that enigmatic phrase, he turned back around, picked up a flimsy straw hat, and flopped it on his head. "I'll be in the next village over. Call the clinic there if he doesn't stop bleeding before dinner."

Sam watched him go. "Who was that?"

"Doctor Sanchez is well known in these parts," the old cowboy named Tío told him. "He's a Native medicine man, uses herbal treatment mixed with some high-tech stuff. Well, he's not _just_ a medicine man. He's got a Ph.D. in medicine, after all. Says he used to work in some famous lab. He's spent the past few years traveling around the poorer communities in the area and doing what he can, all free of charge."

"He looks familiar," Sam mused. "Araceli, doesn't he look a little like that man in Carrizozo, what's-his-name...Sancho?"

"Who, Doctor Sanchez? No, not really. Sancho was much younger, and he had a goatee. I've known Doctor Sanchez since the first day he arrived in this village. That was, what, five years ago?" she asked the old man. "Maybe they look a little alike, but...no, I don't see it."

Sam wondered how she could miss it. The businessman from Carrizozo could have been this doctor's much-younger brother. "Strange," Sam hummed. "When I just heard his voice, my first thought was that it was Sancho again, and maybe everything from last night until now was all a dream, and you were just now rescuing me."

Araceli tittered and ruffled his hair. "Oh, Theodore! You're strange. Get some rest. Sadly, it wasn't all a dream. You were shot. Luckily, Doctor Sanchez's specialty is gunshot wounds. I guess he's seen a lot. After he operated on you, your color came back fast. Still, you're dangerously anemic. Doctor Sanchez said you need to drink this concoction."

She handed him a paper cup with a thick syrup in it. Sam sniffed it, pulled it away in disgust, but forced himself to swallow it down. He only wished it poured faster so he could be done with it sooner.

"He also said, after each cupful, you need at least one full glass of water within five minutes so the medicine doesn't kill you."

Sam gagged on the last of the syrup. "Kill me?" He sneered at the paper cup.

Just what had he swallowed? Something for anemia, but had to be diluted in the stomach? Maybe it was his Swiss-cheese memory, but he knew of no medication like that. He hurriedly accepting a cup of orangish well water. He almost spat the iron-tasting water right back into the cup. He simply tried not to taste it and forced himself to drink the whole thing as fast as possible.

"Well, I sure hope that works. Are you sure he's a doctor?"

"So he claims," Araceli shrugged. "He helped my sister some years ago. He's good."

"Good?" Tío shouted. "He's a goddamn miracle worker, that's what he is."

Araceli gave an endearing smile to the grizzled man. "He truly is. Okay, you drank, so sleep. You look like a zombie."

"Zombie gringo, zombie gringo," the kid laughed, pointing at him.

"Pedro, be nice," Araceli chuckled, ruffling the boy's dark hair.

Sam saw that, whoever these people were, they were people Araceli knew well. That made him relax. He closed his eyes, meaning only to think about where that doctor was familiar from. Could he have been working for the Project? Maybe a doctor friend of Verbeena Beeks? He vaguely recalled that she had acquaintances in the alternative medicine field. He was so familiar...

Before Sam could flip through his addled memories, something in the medicine knocked him out fast with the sensation of falling backward, like a scuba diver flipping over the edge of a boat and splashing down into the murkiness of dreams.

* * *

><p>When Sam woke up, the sky had darkened to purple. He saw Araceli in a chair beside him. She had changed into a tank top that was too small and mini shorts that were too big.<p>

"Did you call your family to get you?" he asked immediately.

She smiled at his thoughtfulness but shook her head. "I told Tío I'd look after you through the night. Otherwise, it'd be a hassle for him."

Sam pushed himself up to sit.

"You really shouldn't..."

Too late, he remembered that he had been shot in the shoulder. His shirt had been removed, and a thick padding had been dressed over the wound on both the front and back sides. It stung a bit, but when Sam lifted the bandage to see if he had reopened the wound, he saw that it was almost completely healed.

"Impossible!" He checked the other major injury, which had been bothering him all day. "The infection in my arm is gone too." He moved the arm that had been mutilated. "It feels a lot better. Not perfect, but the muscle almost feels normal." He inspected all the cuts and bruises on his bare torso. There was still a little swelling where his rib broke, but everything else was healed, not even scabs. "That's...impossible," he breathed in awe.

"That," Araceli grinned, "is the miracle of Doctor Sanchez. He uses ancient healing mixed with cutting edge technology, all experimental, but nothing less than miraculous."

Al stepped forward from deeper in the room. He puffed on his cigar and looked frustrated. "It really must be experimental. We don't have devices like that in my time. Whatever he used, it's something Ziggy doesn't even recognize."

"Your fever is gone, all infection cleared," Araceli told him. "You still need to drink this."

She handed him a paper cup with the thick syrup. Sam drew away from it. It smelled even worse now that he was full awake.

"He said at least five cups before you leave in the morning. I think you should stay, but you're healing even better than his normal miracles. He was quite insistent that you'd be able to go by sunrise, but only if you drink all of this."

Sam tentatively accepted the cup. "What is it?"

"Who knows!" She did not looked concerned or even intrigued. "It's one of Doctor Sanchez's miracles. Drink up!"

Sam tried to taste the syrup as it went down to examine what might be in it, but the taste was appalling. At least the plastic water bottle she handed him was clear and lacked the mineral tang of well water.

While he gulped down the water, trying to drink the whole glass in only a few minutes, the old man entered. His skin was dark from the sun, his black eyes creased from glaring through the desert heat, his beard white and long, and his hands were rough from a life working on a ranch. When he removed his black Stetson hat, Sam saw he was balding with remnants of silver hair slicked with sweat.

"Theodore, this is Tío. Or that's what everyone calls him," Araceli introduced. "We were lucky he was there when those Mafia men got us."

"I would say I'm the lucky one, to get to care for _mija_ right when she needed it," he smiled, patting her shoulder.

"I've known Tío since I was little."

"And I've known her parents long before then. They used to live out here. Her father is like a cousin to me."

"Everyone's father is like a cousin to you," she laughed.

"No, some are like bad in-laws," he teased. "Oh, don't touch that!"

Sam had been inspecting the salve that covered every cut and bruise on his body. He had rubbed a little off and was sniffing it.

"That's good Native medicine. Only that medicine man makes it. He's brought it to our village three times already, and it heals anything."

"I'm curious about this so-called doctor and medicine man," Sam frowned. Sure, it had been a few years since he got his degree in medicine, and herbal tinctures were never a focus, but all of this felt foreign to him. Had he forgotten this much, or had medicine advanced this drastically while he was focused on Project Quantum Leap? Al said the technology was unknown. If even Ziggy didn't recognize such medicine...

"I'm sorry, sonny," Tío apologized, "but he already left. He never stays long, and he only comes by once a year."

"But I never said thank you or repaid him."

"Araceli paid him in cash," Tío told him, patted her back again.

"Some of your cash," she admitted sheepishly.

"I heard that Doctor Sanchez made a donation to the school of an equal amount to what Araceli gave him." Tío laughed and shook his head in amazement. "That's how that man is: he won't accept payment, never stays long, but always shows up on the same day, every year, like clockwork, although up until five years ago, no one really knew him. We still don't know much about him, but we don't question. He's like this village's very own saint. Some of the older women call him Santo Sanchez."

Sam looked to Al, silently questioning him.

Al merely shrugged. "Ziggy has nothing on him. No one even knows if Sanchez is his real name. It's too common of a name to pin him down. And the device he was using earlier...Ziggy's in a fluster over it. He doesn't like when there's something he's never seen before. Ziggy went into something of a tantrum and has shut down, telling us not to bother him for an hour."

"Figures," Sam grumbled.

Tío and Araceli looked to each other in confusion. What figured? That the medicine man would leave before he could thank him? Or that the _abuelas_ of this village almost deified him?

"Look, um...can I get a shirt or something?"

"Sorry, sonny. Doctor Sanchez said the fabric will smear off the medicine. If you get cold, all I can offer is a blanket."

"Um...uh, bathroom?"

Tío smiled at his embarrassment. "Araceli, make some dinner, something light. I might have some canned tortilla soup in the pantry."

She stood up, but the too-big shorts slipped on her hips and showed the edge of light blue fringe of her panties before she hitched them up. She walked out holding the belt loop of the shorts with a finger, leaving the two men (and Al) gawking.

"She really grew up," Tío sighed. "If only I was forty years younger! You're one lucky man, Señor Nyt."

"Oh, we...we aren't...I just happened to meet her and she..."

"Araceli told me the story," he chortled, amused by this nervous gringo. "Sounds like one crazy adventure."

Sam looked aside as he pushed his legs over the edge of the bed. "Story of my life," he muttered.

When he stood, the dizziness hit him. He did not even have time to be embarrassed by the fact that the only thing he was wearing were boxer shorts.

"Juanita's cleaning your clothes. Araceli's pants were ruined, and those shorts she's got on belonged to my daughter. We'll find something her size before morning, even if it's sweatpants. It's a real miracle you guys were here the same day as the medicine man. A real miracle! I thought for sure Araceli's leg would be scarred for life, and yet there she is, walking around, barely a bruise. And you! We all thought you were dead. Doctor Sanchez was pale as a sheet when he saw you. Somehow, he kept you breathing."

"I wish I could thank him," Sam pouted. Once again, someone had to rescue _him_ instead of him always rescuing others.

"If you want to thank anyone, thank the Lord. Santa María sent him today. _¡__Gracias a Dios!_" Thank God!

Sam just smiled at his religious fervency. Tío showed him to a tiny bathroom, barely enough room for a cracked toilet smashed between a chipped sink and a bathtub that an adult would have a hard time sitting in, with a shower head that dripped like a ticking clock. The well water pumped into this home had stained the bath, sink, and toilet orange. There was a crucifix above the toilet. Peeing while staring at a silver Jesus on a wooden cross was slightly disturbing.

When Al walked straight through the door, Sam jolted. "Can't you wait until I'm done?"

"What other time can we talk?" Al shrugged. "Not like I haven't seen you taking a whiz before."

"Ziggy said that I had to make it to Mexico in twenty-four hours if I wanted to succeed."

"Yeah, about that. Before Ziggy went primadonna on us, he said that it was okay. With Araceli staying with you, your odds are remaining steady. Ziggy said something about her being a temporal catalyst or something. Gooshie's trying to figure out what he meant." It was actually Donna researching that information, but whenever it was Donna, he always just said it was Gooshie, since Sam remembered him. "That's why I said you have to protect her at all costs. Ziggy still thinks the reason you're here is to get Theodore Nyt into Mexico, but protecting the life of Araceli de la Rosa comes at a close second. A double mission, if you will."

"And I'm safe so long as she's around me. Which means after I drop her off at her parents' house..."

"Once you leave Araceli's side, you have twenty-four hours to get out of the United States. Otherwise, Ziggy says...assured failure."

Sam thought that over. So long as he was with Araceli, he could take his time.

He wished he could stay with her for a few more days.

"If I...if I _stay_ with Araceli...with her family..."

"No, Sam," Al said sternly. He regretfully saw his friend getting that schoolboy-crush look in his face. "You'll only get them involved. Once Araceli is in her hometown of Socorro, you drop her off and get the hell away from her fast." Sam still had a petulant expression, like he was scheming for a chance to get his way. "I know she's a lovely woman, but Theodore Nyt is not a good man. You have to get out of the country and away from her. She was hurt bad in that crash, Sam. Real bad. She shouldn't be walking. Whoever that medicine man is, he really did a miracle on her. And on you. I shouldn't tell you this, but...I vanished for a while."

That yanked Sam right out of his thoughts of staying a few days with Araceli. "Vanished?"

"Went back home. The Imaging Chamber worked fine, but...there was nothing to project onto. Ziggy said you were dead. If you're dead, I can't be here in the past with you. This hologram you see is created by a subatomic agitation of carbon quarks tuned to the mesons of your optic and otic neurons. If no neurons are firing, I can't talk to you, nor can I see what's around you. And...and that happened, Sam. You were dead. We...we really thought this was it. We were...all of us...really scared that we lost you for good."

Sam was touched by the grief and worry and Al's face. He began to reach forward to comfort him, but his hand went through the sleeve of his gaudy shirt.

"You've been taking a lot of grief from me on this Leap," he said softly.

Al sniffed and gave a laconic shrug. "You'd think I'd get used to it."

"Thank you, Al. Really, thank you."

Al looked up with a smile. He nodded in silent thanks. Sam always knew the right things to say to lift his spirits once again. "Well," he said loudly, breaking the emotional tension, "you have the face that says you gotta take a dump and you're not about to do that with me watching. Besides, I've gotta get back. Someone on the Project is having a birthday and I'm hosting the party."

"Oh, someone I know?"

Al hesitated just a moment. "Yeah, someone you know. You know the rules, Sam, I can't say..."

"I know, I know, but if I used to know them, then maybe you can tell them happy birthday for me...you know, to be friendly."

For a brief moment, Sam thought Al might begin crying. Then the admiral firmed up and nodded firmly. "I'll tell her." The Imaging Chamber door opened, and Al stepped out.

* * *

><p>Donna covered her mouth. Al knew she was glad for the message, although it was bittersweet. Maybe Sam could not remember her, but he had still given her the best birthday gift she had received in years.<p>

"Hey, Tío!" Al waved to an ancient man in a cowboy hat who happened to be walking by.

The man weaved his way through the noisy restaurant to them, resting heavily on a cane. "Yes, sonny? Do I know you?"

"Maybe not, but you know a friend. Hey, do you remember a few years ago, a shooting around this area, a young lady and a gentleman on a bike?"

"Oh, of course!" Tío grinned. "Señorita Araceli and that mysterious knight. Sure, I remember that. Must've been back in the mid-90s, some time before this steakhouse opened, but yeah, I was there, helped them out. That sure does bring me back," he hummed nostalgically.

Donna suddenly jumped up from the large table they had reserved for the party. She ran past waitresses and diners, out from the Edge of Texas Steakhouse and Saloon, and into the warm summer night. Built right on the border of New Mexico and Texas, the steakhouse had become famous since opening in 1997.

She looked around. Here, right here, earlier today—well, many years ago, but for them it happened today—Sam had been right here. He had almost died right in this spot. And by a miracle, he survived to continue Leaping closer to home.

Al, Tina, Gooshie, and Verbeena came up behind her. Tina and Verbeena each held a shoulder. Gooshie shined a light into the darkness, and Al searched. It was different, what with the new restaurant there, but he could remember it clearly.

He pointed to the highway. "That was where Sam was shot. The bike lost control there, just a few meters past the state line. They slid over to here." Gooshie's flashlight moved where Al was pointing. "Sam was thrown off about here, but the bike kept going to...to that cactus, right there. Wow, it's still here! Araceli, she ended up this way, got thrown pretty hard. After the Mafia men were gunned down, Sam tried crawling to her. He got right to here." Al stood right in the spot where Sam had collapsed. "That man Sanchez came and found him lying right here. That's when he d-...when I vanished." He could not bring himself to say it was where Sam had momentarily been dead. "When I came back, he was over here. They had put him on a blanket in the back of someone's pickup. Then they transported him to Tío's house. He's there now, resting up."

"He's there now," Donna whispered, clasping her hands to her chest. Sometime in the past but...but there _now_. She looked up to the stars. They always reminded her of Sam. She felt closest to him, knowing they were under the same stars.

Ever calm, Verbeena Beeks stepped up and patted her shoulder. "He's still with us, Donna. He's out there, and he's working hard to complete his mission. Maybe he doesn't remember all of us, but he knows we are a huge part of his life."

"That's right!" Tina said. "And, like, one day, he'll tell you happy birthday while in your arms. We'll bring him home, Donna. Totally!"

She nodded, but she still could not say anything. Sam had been standing right here. She had met Araceli in the past. She didn't recall it—it was impossible to remember every single person she randomly bumped into—but they had been in the same building together. Sam was somewhere nearby, in the past, but still there. And he... he had wished her happy birthday!

"Well, come on!" Al said boisterously. "Let's get back inside. The others are waiting. It's time to get this party started!"

**End of Chapter 19**

* * *

><p><em>AN: Finally, I get to use the Edge of Texas Steakhouse and Saloon! I feel happy now._

_"Tío" means uncle in Spanish. "Gringo," considered offensive in most areas of the United States, is a person of U.S. or English descent. Mijo and mija are terms of endearment, short for "mi hijo/hija" which means "my son/daughter." It's used between parents and children, adults and youngsters, or between close friends. "Abuelas" means grandmothers, but can also be a generalized term for much older women. Okay, did I miss any terms? I thought this was obvious, but I guess that's because I grew up in a Spanish neighborhood. If my proofreader has to ask for definitions, it means I need to annotate it. Or it could be because he studied French instead of Spanish. _^_^_  
><em>


	20. My Prayer in the Desert

_This is my prayer in the desert,_  
><em>And all that's within me feels dry.<em>  
><em>This is my prayer in my hunger and need,<em>  
><em>My God is the God who provides.<em>  
><em>- Hillsong, "The Desert Song"<em>

* * *

><p>Chapter 20<p>

**My Prayer in the Desert**

It was dark when Araceli ventured out of the rickety house and saw a silhouette sitting on the porch swing. Sam had wrapped a blanket around his bare shoulders against the winter chill. The sky had cleared, and a beautiful canopy of celestial lights twinkled overhead.

"You shouldn't be out here," she warned softly.

"I wanted to see the stars," Sam replied. "Somehow, the stars in the desert always remind me of home, of...of something I've forgotten." His brow tightened. Something with the stars, watching them with...someone...who?

Araceli sat beside him and gazed up. "They're peaceful. My grandmother used to say, the stars are the wishes God just hasn't answered yet, not just any wish, but those really special ones, ones we wish for with all our soul. When we see a shooting star, that's one of those super special wishes coming true."

She began to lean into him. Sam smiled and raised his arm to hold her shoulders, but the movement pained the injury. He cried out softly and lowered his arm in gentle movements. He tried to grin and laugh through the pain.

"Guess it's not healed as well as I had hoped," he apologized.

She rose, walked around him, and sat on his other side. "How about that?"

Sam felt warmth radiating through her. The way her dark eyes twinkled, then shyly looked aside, soothed any winter chill. He wrapped an arm around her and pulled her close. "Yes, that's much better," he whispered.

She stared at the sky for a long time, relaxed in his embrace. Sam leaned his cheek onto her head. This was all so familiar, sitting there in boxers, stargazing with a beautiful woman.

Araceli turned her head over to him with a sincere face. "Do you believe in God?"

His eyebrows arched as he considered this. "I used to be of the scientific mindset, but lately, after everything I've been through...I now believe we are all guided through life by something: God, Fate or whatever," he chuckled. "I was put right here for some reason. We can't always know that reason. We can guess, make calculations, but in the end we never know what our quest truly is until it's complete."

"Quest!" She gave a lighthearted laugh and looked back up to the heavens. "You sound like Don Quixote."

"To love pure and chaste from afar?" he questioned.

She swung her head over to him with a dropped mouth, shocked at such words.

"Sorry, that was too bold," Sam said bashfully. He let go of the close hold he had on her bare arm but did not pull back completely.

She leaned back, resting her head on his forearm. "Do you mind if I pray?"

"No! No, of course not."

She let out a small breath to relax her mind, then clasped her hands together and gazed up to Heaven. "_Santa María, Madre de Dios_," she began, and continued in Spanish. "This man deserves your mercy. When I was starving, without money or shelter, he appeared like an angel. He not only gave me food and paid for my motel, but he gave me money, more money than I've seen in a whole year. He did it without my asking and without seeking thanks. Now I'm trying to repay him. The Devil may challenge us, but I know you are guiding us. I don't know what he did in the past, but please Santa María, show him mercy now. Remove his pain. Help him find his path. Help us both to find our way home."

Sam was moved by that wish. Home! Home was so close, yet so far away.

"_En el nombre del Padre, y del Hijo, y del Espíritu Santo. Amén._" In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

She crossed herself, lifted the crucifix she wore on a necklace, and kissed it. Sam gave a moment without movement, a solemn moment of reflection, then he squeezed her shoulders.

"Thank you," he breathed. "I'm not sure if anyone besides my parents have ever prayed for me before."

"Theodore Nyt," she spoke, contemplating that name. "A knight in shining armor who comes to rescue the damsel in distress. Or dark like a desert night." She glanced over to him with her neck still arched back. "Which one is it? Knight or Night?"

Sam was stunned for a moment. Al never told him the spelling, and he had no identification to tell him. "Which would you like it to be?" he asked back.

She laughed musically and returned her gaze to the stars. "Well, you're not much of a knight, considering the damsel had to come to _your_ rescue."

"That's true," he laughed.

"So I guess that leaves Night...a dark night, cool and calm, hiding its secrets, concealing all around it, sheltering it from what might be possible danger. And yet," she smiled to him, "is a danger itself. Dark and dangerous. Yet out here in the desert, it is the day that can kill, and the night that provides shelter. You're a dangerous man, whatever you did in the past, but right now, out here in the desert...you're a good man, a protective man. You're a man of dichotomy...like a desert night."

Her black eyes gleamed silver in the moonlight. Sam felt drawn to her. He slowly leaned in, and she tilted her head upward. He hesitated just a moment, caressed her smooth, mocha cheek, then gave in and kissed her. Her lips were soft, her mouth warm with a taste of Mexican food still on her tongue. With his good arm, Sam pulled her in closer and deepened the kiss. Araceli hummed happily at the kisses he gave to her and ran her hands over his bare chest, dragged her fingers up along the neck to give Sam chills, and clutch slightly into his hair, pulling him closer to her.

"So familiar," San mused to himself as he moved his lips to kiss from her ear down her neck and to her collar. "Sitting like this, with the desert stars above, kissing such a lovely lady...like I've done this before."

She chuckled softly as she swung her hair out of the way of his roaming lips. "Maybe you've seduced other women in the desert."

"None I can remember," he answered, privately knowing that meant very little. Like he could remember anything! He raised his head back up and gazed at her. "Perhaps I had such a lovely woman in another lifetime...a life in the desert, a life of happiness and peace."

"It must have been a good life," she smiled, and her fingers ran through his hair. "Would you like a life like that again, Theodore?"

Hearing that name snapped Sam out of the moment.

"We could run away into the desert. It's a vast place. People live out there and are never discovered. Those Mafia goons could never find us."

He shook his head. "I won't damn you to a life of looking over your shoulder. I'm bad news, Araceli. You've said so yourself: I'm a dangerous man. You have a dream you want to fulfill, a family you should take care of. I can't take you away from that. A drifter like me...I have no right to snatch you away."

Her eyes looked sad, yet her face showed that she had expected as much. "Then...just for tonight..."

"We'll always have this desert night," he whispered to her. Then Sam leaned in again and gave her another deep, passionate kiss.

Out in the distance, a coyote yipped and howled.

**End of Chapter 20**

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><p><em>Disclaimer: I don't own the lyrics to Hillsong's music. I used it as an epigraph because it's such an awesome song.<em>


	21. Life's a Journey

"_This is the sense of the desert hills, that there is room enough and time enough." - Mary Austin_

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><p>Chapter 21<p>

**Life's a Journey**

The next morning, Al slurped down his coffee as he lumbered into Project Quantum Leap's control room.

"Morning, Admiral," Gooshie said, already perky as he stood by the multicolored control table programming some new information.

Al grumbled and went to Verbeena Beeks' office. She also looked refreshed and cheery.

"Well, someone looks like they had a rough night," she said brightly. "Drank a little too much at Donna's birthday party?"

"You must take pleasure in seeing me in agony," grumbled Al.

"Not as much as you think," she replied, still smiling. "I take it you need more of a pick-me-up than _coffea arabica_."

"The best you can give me. And some Aspirin."

"I have better." Doctor Beeks walked to a cabinet where she kept medication. Usually these were calmatives for the Visitors who tended to arrive in a panic, but every once in a while the crew needed something extra to keep on their toes during arduous Leaps. She opened two bottles, put the medicine into a paper cup, and handed the cup to Al, who swished them down with his coffee.

"How's the Visitor?" Al asked routinely.

"Mister Nyt still believes we're part of the Mafia and holding him prisoner. Since we're not torturing him, he's feeling relieved; therefore, I've determined that might be the best thing to let him believe for now. How's Doctor Beckett?"

Al gave a grunt as he sipped his coffee. "Yesterday scared the crap out me. I hope he Leaps before he gets himself even more injured. He should make it to El Paso in under an hour. Let's hope getting that girl home is all he has to do, because I'm not sure he's physically up to making the crossing into Mexico."

Al left, waved hello to Tina while purposely not looking at her giving Gooshie a peck on the cheek, and only belatedly realized Donna and a couple other core members of the team were not around. Perhaps they were also recovering from the party.

"Prepare the Imaging Chamber," he called out. He slugged down the last of the coffee and set the cup to the side. The entry corridor's warm blue glow lit up with a hum. Al trudged up the ramp and looked at the misty image on the other side of the corridor. "Just what I need, a bright desert morning for my hangover."

"Tell Sam hi for me!" Tina called out with a toodaloo wave.

Ziggy's voice came over, smooth and svelte, almost sexy. Tina had picked her _ideal_ voice when programming this feature, so although Ziggy was referred to from the beginning as a _he_, Tina stubbornly gave the computer a woman's voice. "Ready when you are, Admiral. And remember," the computer said firmly, "stay focused on the mission."

"You're just bitter, Ziggy," Al laughed, lighting up a cigar already.

"You have yet to see me truly bitter, Admiral Calavicci," Ziggy said in what was almost an ominous tone. "Let my father die again, and you might see it."

Tina looked up at the swirling sphere. "Did Ziggy just...threaten us?"

Gooshie flinched slightly at the wild thoughts of worst case scenarios involving hyper-intelligent hybrid computers and torture devices. "Perhaps I shouldn't have programmed _that_ into Ziggy."

Tina looked over so fast, her flashing earrings looked like disco balls. "_That?_ That what?"

"You, uh...don't want to know." The little halitosis-plagued man blush fiery red.

Ziggy's voice came back, instantly pleasant again. "Have fun in El Paso, Admiral."

Al glared up worriedly at the sphere that held Ziggy's "brain." He knew Sam's momentary death had worried the rest of the crew, but Ziggy...no one thought about how losing Sam would affect the computer. Ziggy had called Sam "father" in a joking manner before, but how did he really view Sam Beckett?

"Gooshie," Al said softly as the Imagining Chamber slid open, "tell Dr. Beeks to have a little pep talk with Ziggy while I'm gone." The psychiatrist had helped Ziggy's emotions in the past. He hoped she could calm Ziggy down now.

Al grabbed up the colorful handlink and sneered at the blue and white glare he had to walk through first. He clamped down on the cigar, firmed up his determination, and stepped through...back to 1995 and into the home of Tío.

"So," he said, attempting to be cheerful to make up for how lousy he felt, "how's the patien-...-ent? Maybe I should come back at a better time."

Sam bolted up from bed, but his unconscious self had forgotten about the injuries. He shouted in pain, which brought Araceli to wake up and sit up beside him. She rubbed her eyes and hummed. Her loose shirt fell off the edge of her shoulder and slipped down her breast, almost revealing it, except she quickly yanked it back up, only to have it slip again.

"Sorry," he said, rubbing out his arm. "Sudden nature call. Go back to sleep."

"No, please," Al ogled. "Keep sitting just like that. Yowza!"

Araceli rose from the bed dressed in only an over-sized shirt and her underwear. "I'll get the coffee going and check on Tío."

Sam stood much slower and tested his body first. He looked down at the wrap around his ribs. Wearing only boxer briefs, he hobbled to the dingy bathroom.

"Sam, you dog!" Al said, shaking his head.

"Nothing happened," he whispered.

"You wake up in bed in your underwear with a half-naked, drop-dead gorgeous _mamacita_ sleeping beside you and you say _nothing happened_?"

"Really! Well," he hesitated, "maybe kissing was involved, but...it's not what it looks like."

"Oh, I've heard that one before," Al chuckled. "Of course, this is _you_ we're talking about, so I'm prone to believe you simply fell asleep while talking about philosophy."

"It got cold, and the shivering hurt. It was either steal her blanket and leave her with nothing, or combine blankets. That's all, I swear."

"You didn't think to—oh I don't know—_put more clothes on_?" Al shouted, but he had to laugh. Sam was way too innocent to lie about this. It was still fun to tease him.

"I couldn't put clothes on. The medicine..."

There was a knock on the door. "If you're done with confession," Tío called in, "I've got pancakes. You okay with sausage, or are you one of those religions that don't eat pork?"

"Uh, no, th-that is, pork's fine," Sam shouted, embarrassed for having gotten caught talking to Al again.

Looking at the face in the mirror, he was glad that at least Theodore Nyt healed fast. The puffiness in his face had already gone down, and whatever Doctor Sanchez put on the bruising had helped the discoloration considerably. He still had a dark shadow under his eye, but nothing like how bad he looked yesterday. He moved his arm. It had felt better, but he realized there was still a lot of healing to do.

"So, is Ziggy talking?"

"Oh, yes, he got out of his temper tantrum and decided, quite reluctantly, that this mysterious doctor was an unknown integer. Since he's gone now, Ziggy is stubbornly ignoring him and demands we all focus on getting you and Araceli to Socorro." Al laughed tensely. "He actually threatened us this morning."

"Threatened?" Sam asked in worry. "Ziggy's mad?"

"A bit bitter about you temporarily dying."

"Oh, you do _not_ want Ziggy bitter," Sam warned. "Never ever get him bitter."

Al was curious now, but he decided it might be better not knowing just what the computer might do to them all.

Over a pancake breakfast, Araceli read a newspaper. Sam cut up the thick stack with cheap artificial syrup and margarine that refused to melt. At least the orange juice was fresh, and the coffee was strong.

"I'm so behind on what's going on in the world," Araceli sighed, flipping to another page of the paper. "It's a miracle I can remember it's 1995 already."

"Yeah, same here," Sam ironically agreed.

Small Pedro came up and delivered two more sausages. "_¿Usted quiere más crepes, señor?_" Do you want more pancakes, mister?

Sam smiled stiffly. "_Gracias, pero no más. Es sabroso, muy sabroso. Mi barriga es llena._" Thanks, but no more. It's tasty, very tasty. My belly is full.

The boy shrugged. "_Barriga llena, corazón contento. D__isfrute su comida, señor._" A full stomach makes a happy heart. Enjoy your meal, mister.

Sam watched him walk back toward the kitchen. "So, it's _señor_ today and not gringo?"

"He got in trouble for calling you that," Araceli chuckled. "Huh! Intel just came out with a new chip. They're calling it 'P6.' It says here, it has 5.5 billion transistors on a two-chip package. How can they even make something so tiny contain so much?"

Sam ate a portion of sausage and said nothing. Something like that was infantile compared to Ziggy.

"My brother has stock in Intel," she explained. "He got it last year, said personal computers are the way of the future, and the stock is only going to go up."

"So long as he cashes out before the dot-com burst of 2000," Al grumbled through his cigar. "I lost money on that."

"He should keep it for four years, then sell," Sam said offhand.

"Oh?" She looked up from her newspaper. "Are you keen on playing the stock market?"

"I'm just saying," he shrugged. "Cash out before 2000. It's a new millennium, people are going to panic, stock market will fluctuate."

"Oh, Sam, you're not supposed to tell her these things," Al chided.

Sam knew the rules, but he figured her family needed the extra help. In all likelihood, her brother would cash in his stock long before then, or simply not listen to a sister's advice. Even if he did listen and avoided a stock market crash, a little money would not change their lives too drastically...right?

They finished breakfast. Tío and his daughter Juanita gave Araceli hugs with friendly admonitions to visit them more often. Pedro stood behind and stared suspiciously at Sam.

"You had better visit again," Tío scolded with a soft pat to Araceli's cheeks.

"I'm moving back to Socorro, so I can make the drive," she nodded. "I'll get Mama and Papa to come too."

Sam shook hands with the old cowboy, then handed him an envelope. "My way of saying thanks, not just for the bed and food, but for being one of those people Araceli can turn to in her time of need."

"Señor, Araceli is like family. You don't need to thank me."

"Yes, I do. That's just the type of man I am. Maybe it'll help your family. Get some fresh water piped in from the city, for starters, instead of that well water stuff," he suggested. "And I put in a little extra so you can make sure your own children and grandchildren always have a home to return to."

With more waves, Araceli and Sam walked over to the bike. It had been fixed up enough to drive, although the paint was slashed off from the crash and deep grooves scarred the side.

"That poor, poor bike," Al lamented, leaning over to see the damage. Just then, Araceli climbed on. Still hunched, with her thigh inches from his face, Al gazed upon something far more exquisite than a Harley. "Her poor, poor legs. Sam, I hope you kissed every injured part of her body, and I do mean every!"

Sam gave him a scolding glare, then tapped Araceli's arm. "I'll ride."

Al chortled softly. "I bet you want to ride her!"

"Are you sure you're up to it?"

"Lady, you'd make any man _up_ to it!"

"I'm up...I'm..." Sam strained not to listen to Al's perversions. "I feel better after last night." Al guffawed louder. "Sleeping!" he insisted. "I...after getting a relaxing night of sleep, I'm feeling in a lot less pain." _Shut up already, Al!_ "Come on, the least I can do to save my pride is to be driving as I pull up to your parents' house. It's just an hour. I'll be fine. And this way I'll know if I'm okay to keep going or if I need to stay in town for another day or two."

Araceli nodded and scooted back. "I almost hope you're in a tiny bit of pain so you have to stay around."

Al was nearly drooling on her. "Lady, you can put me through all the pain you want."

Sam mounted the bike in the front and adjusted his clothes.

"_Un momento._" She took one last long look around the village in reminiscence. "Did you grow up around here, Theodore?"

"No, actually." He tried to think back to Al's brief biography. "I lived in Las Vegas up to a few days ago. Before that, I lived in...um...in Los Angeles."

"I lived my whole life in the desert, and there is one thing I've learned. The desert is one big liar! It makes you think there is an oasis just over the next dune, yet there's no water. It makes you think the next dune is only a few minutes away, yet you can walk for hours and never reach it. It makes you forget. It makes you remember what you wish you could forget. It makes you think the world is massive when really it's quite small. It makes you want to believe in eternity, while in reality, especially in the desert, time is short, meetings are brief, and tomorrow comes far too soon." She wrapped her arms around Sam's waist and leaned into his back. "I just met you, yet I know, before the day is over, you'll be gone."

Sam had to chuckle. "With any luck, assuming I'm not shot or stabbed or beaten again. Besides, I told you on Wednesday that I'd get you home, and here it is Friday already. You could have stayed in Carrizozo waiting for your brother, been a lot safer, and still have gotten home at about the same time."

"Not true. My brother couldn't have come to get me until tonight. With any luck, as you say, we'll be in Socorro in an hour. I still have all day to buy my mother a birthday gift. And in Carrizozo, I would have been lonely. This way, I've had someone watching over me the whole time." She rubbed her hands over his chest and looked up into his face. "It's one of those meetings you never forget, the sort of adventure that comes along only a few times in our life. Despite everything," she chuckled with a blush, "I've had fun. 'Life's a journey, not a destination.'"

"Emerson."

"Huh? No, Aerosmith. You know, the song."

"It's amazing," Al sang to remind him. "In the blink of an eye, you finally see the light."

"Oh, uh...right." Sam turned back around and fixed the helmet over his face. "Great, now that song's going to be stuck in my head all day."

"You're welcome," Al chuckled. "Now let's get going. The sooner you get her home, the sooner I can get some more of that miracle medicine for my headache."

"Yeah, let's go," Sam agreed.

The bike roared and putted away. Tío, Juanita, and Pedro waved farewell. The bike hit some paved road, and Sam sped up to highway speeds.

"What did the gringo give you, _abuelo_?" Pedro asked, staring at the suspiciously thick envelope.

Tío used his pocketknife to cut it open. He stumbled backward and grabbed his chest. Juanita held him in worry.

"Papa, Papa! What is it?" Then she saw the inside of the envelope too and grabbed her chest. "_¡Ay Dios mio!_"

Pedro cocked his head to the side. "That's a lot of hundreds!"

**End of Chapter 21**

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><p><em>AN: "Barriga llena, corazón contento" is a Spanish saying. The direct translation is "Stomach full, heart happy." It's based on the Bible: "The righteous eat to their hearts' content, but the stomach of the wicked goes hungry." - Proverbs 13:25_

_The bit about Intel's P6: I researched what was in the news this day in history. I was surprised to see that February 17, 1995, was the day the P6 was announced, yanking Intel out of the mire of the Pentium mishap. Since my husband is a tech at Intel, I wanted to throw that in._

_"Life's a journey, not a destination" has been requoted so many times, it's hard to find the original source. Steven Tyler sang it in the Aerosmith song "Amazing" (1993), and Rabbi Sidney Greenberg said the same thing with a little more solemnity, but I believe both were quoting Ralph Waldo Emerson._


	22. Poor Man at McDonald's

_"I am a poor man and of little worth, who is laboring in that art that God has given me in order to extend my life as long as possible." - Michelangelo_

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><p>Chapter 22<p>

**The Poor Man at the McDonald's**

Al simply had to stay centered on Sam, sit back, and enjoy the passing scenery. El Paso was finally in view, and with it the end to a tiring, emotionally-wrought Leap. He hoped Sam never leaped into New Mexico ever again! It was too weird to be in such a familiar place, especially at this time in history...too close to home.

At least they were in Texas now. Crossing the state border felt like leaving behind a nightmare. Too many close calls. Too much injury to Sam. Too many secrets Al hated to keep.

"I'm hungry," Araceli suddenly announced. "Are you hungry?"

Sam was still recovering from the huge breakfast, but he did not want to inconvenience her. "I don't know this area well. Where's a good place?"

"McDonald's."

Al snorted a laugh. "Classy girl."

They pulled off near University of Texas El Paso and cruised by the campus on their search for golden arches. Sam kept looking at the buildings as random memories flashed into his mind.

"Hey!"

He jolted and slammed on his brakes at a red light.

Araceli squeezed his shoulders and looked around to try and see his face. "You okay? You're spacing out on me. Is it blood loss?"

"No, I...I remember this university. I lectured here."

"Lectured? Seriously? A lawyer like you?"

"It...well, it wasn't anything too interesting I guess," he muttered, realizing he had to be more careful. The light turned green, and he kept on driving.

This was where he had given that lecture, probably not too many months ago in this time line. He clearly recalled that brave student who stood up in front of the whole forum to question _the_ Doctor Sam Beckett on whether time travel was _a middle finger in the face of Father Time_. It was that student who inspired him to write the thesis _Wards of Time_, questioning the ethics of time travel. Because of that lone student, he and Al came up with a complex set of rules, rules which now plagued him because it meant he could not find out certain things about his own life.

That kid was probably still on the campus somewhere, sitting in some lab with a complex equation written on a board, working tirelessly on a subject that some people scoffed as pure science fiction. Time travel! Sam chuckled to himself. He hoped that kid could join Project Quantum Leap some day.

They found a McDonald's and went inside to eat. It was busy with the noon rush, mostly families with children rushing to eat so they could have fun on the playground. Sam smiled around at them.

"Must be nice, being married, having a family," he mused.

Araceli looked up from her fries in surprise. "Were you ever married, Theodore?"

Al turned around fast. Oh no! Not this subject!

"The Mafia killed my wife," Sam answered flatly.

Al felt a slight relief. Yes, of course, Sam had been on enough Leaps to simply let the history of the person he was in take over without worrying too much about his own personal life.

"Oh! I'm...I'm very sorry for your loss," Araceli said in confusion. She thought a widow might have a sadder expression. Plus, now she wondered what was up with that kiss last night. "Did it happen recently?"

"Not too recent," he muttered. He honestly had no idea how long ago, but it was at least before he Leaped in.

She slurped her soda. "I really don't know much about you, do I? Have you been on the run for a long time?"

"Sure feels like it," Sam sighed, stretching his sore shoulder. "There are times when months pass by in the blink of an eye, and times when a few days feel like months."

She was unsure how to take such a cryptic comment.

Sam dispelled the heavy atmosphere with a flashing smile. "I thought you were hungry."

She looked down to the half-eaten cheeseburger. "Maybe the reason was your bike was killing my ass again."

"Ah, sorry about that," he laughed, scratching out some matted sweat in his hair.

She looked hard at him. Such an enigma! He could go from thinking about having a family to talking about a dead wife to laughing carefree, all so easily. "Maybe the real reason is that I'm not sure if I'm ready to let you go. When I reach home, you're taking off, and that's it."

"Aww," Al chuckled. "She's got a crush on you. How sweet!"

Sam glared over at him briefly. "Araceli..."

He exhaled and looked down to the scratched out messages on the table, including a heart with "S+A" etched inside. He realized it was probably some love-struck teenager who left that bit of graffiti, but it made him sigh at lost chances. All these Leaps seemed to be that way. Time to chock up another one!

"You're right," he said with a determined tone. "You don't know much about me, and that's probably for the best." He pouted that he had to push her aside so heartlessly.

Her eyes turned up with a bitter flash. "Do you really think that? After all these days of traveling together, after risking my life for you, getting shot at, crashing the bike...you really just want to dump me off at home and run off? Maybe to the next girl you can kiss under the stars?"

"No! If I could..." He left it as that. What sort of future could Theodore Nyt give to her anyway? A life on the run? A life looking over their shoulders? "You deserve a good, long life," he told her honestly. "You deserve to be one of these mothers bringing their kids to McDonald's and watching them slide into the ball pit. You wouldn't get that with me."

The restaurant door opened, and this time a few people looked up with disgusted faces. Curious, Sam looked around. A bedraggled man stumbled in, his clothes torn and covered in dust, his long hair unwashed and uncombed, his mocha cheeks harrowed and shadowed with many days worth of stubble.

"Yes, here! This is it. This is the place. Yes, at last," he exclaimed.

Araceli also looked, but turned her head away. "Ugh, those are the worst! They come into busy fast food joints and beg for change. Some try to sell you stuff. Parents are so scared to have them around their children, they'll give him a few coins just to move him along. Just watch. You see them a lot around cities like this."

"Every circumstance has a story," Sam told her. Someone had told him that once while giving a beggar some change. Who? A face struggled to come to the surface or his memories. A woman...striking eyes...brown hair...

The man was immediately at their table. "Are you...him?" he asked hesitantly. His accent was far too good for a newly arrived immigrant.

"Him who?" Sam asked suspiciously. Was this yet another Mafia hit man? If so, he was not a good one.

The man laughed softly and shook his head. "I was expecting...but then again, it changes, doesn't it? Appearances. Yes, I didn't think of that. It was different for you than for me."

Sam slurped down the last of his soda. "Here." He gave the man a twenty dollar bill. "Buy yourself a good meal and some shoes."

"Shoes?" He looked to his feet. "Oh, that's right. I missed my landing. I was too far off. Right time, wrong place. Had to walk a long way. But that doesn't matter. I'll fix that next time. Oh boy! Wait until I tell them. It's you! Really you! They'll stop laughing at me, stop saying I'm crazy. It is you, right? Gotta be you!"

Circumstances be damned! _Crazy_ was just what he imagined this man was. "Come on," he urged to Araceli. He pulled her by the hand while she tried to finish the last of her hamburger. He glared at the man's insane mutterings.

"Oh, please, don't go, not yet," the poor man begged. "I just got here. We just met."

Something about him...he looked familiar. Why was he meeting up with so many familiar yet unknown people this time? Sam went outside to the motorcycle and tossed Araceli's helmet to her.

The beggar followed them out. "You're heading to Mexico, right? Maybe I can help."

"Sam," Al warned sharply.

"Theordore?" Araceli asked worriedly. "He knows."

"He's Mexican, not Italian," Sam muttered to both of them as he put on his own helmet.

"That's right!" the man smiled. "I'm not Italian. I'm not one of those Mafia men."

That clenched it. Sam straddled the bike. "Hold on," he grumbled to Araceli. Sam started the bike and gunned it away with the man still shouting at him to wait.

How could he know about the Mafia unless he was working for them? And who else knew he was heading to Mexico?

"Damn, that was weird," Al muttered, standing just behind the bike and watching the tattered man waving his arms at them.

"Do you think he was working for them, an associate?"

"What?" Araceli shouted over the roaring engine noise.

"No other way he'd know," Al agreed. "Still, he's not the type. And he was...I dunno."

"Familiar," Sam agreed. It disturbed him deeply. "I have a feeling I need to get out of here fast or we're going to hit more trouble."

**End of Chapter 22**

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><p><em>AN: Ack! I originally had the university written as Texas A&M. I honestly don't know what I was thinking, considering it's on the other side of the State. If you read that and thought "When did Sam leap across Texas?"... I'm sorry, I figured I should research it but I waved it off. So lazy of me! It's fixed now. _^_^


	23. The City of Succor

_"It is better to travel well than to arrive." - Buddha_

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><p>Chapter 23<p>

**City of Succor**

_A little east of El Paso is a suburb called Socorro. Only the Rio Grande separates it from Mexico. Socorro is Spanish for "aid" or "help," and usually, when used in place names, refers to the Virgin Mary: Our Lady of Perpetual Help, _Sancta Mater de Perpetuo Succursu.

_We were here now, the town where Araceli grew up, the town that succored her through childhood, the house she lived in for years, a manicured lawn and cute curtains in the windows, so totally not fitting the image I had drawn up about this this fellow traveler._

_Free-spirited: that was how I saw her. I knew she would feel stifled in this perfect picture of paradise._

_Of course, I tried not to think about that. My job was merely to see her home safely. Maybe she would settle down, take care of her aging parents, find a nice man, marry, have kids. Maybe she would move to the city, take that job with her brother at the bike shop, covered head to toe in motor oil. I could imagine her in a gray jumper with black smudges on her cheeks. Maybe she was destined for even greater dreams._

_My job was to see her arrive safely, not to follow her along her next path in life._

_Still, I rarely had to tell the people I met goodbye. A hug at a successful venture, and I left on my merry way, a clean break, no tears, no awkward farewells._

_I guess I'm not very good at saying goodbye._

* * *

><p>Sam turned off the motorcycle, letting this quiet residential section of Socorro go back to its peaceful lull. Nobody had come out of the house yet, but he heard mariachi music playing from an opened window, dishes clattering, and the mouthwatering smell of cumin and cilantro. Someone was home and cooking.<p>

He had no idea what to do next, and Al was no longer prompting him. Araceli still sat behind him, staring at the house, holding her helmet in her arms like hugging a teddy bear. When he looked at her, he saw conflicting emotions: joy at being back home, fear at falling back into an old rut.

"Well..." She had sounded determined for half a syllable, but it trailed off. She pouted at that closed door on the other end of a white fence. "You're heading off, huh? Mexico still?"

"That's the plan," Sam nodded.

"Dangerous. Maybe I can help. I could watch your back..."

"No," Sam cut off, leaving her shocked. "Thank you, really, but I don't want to put you into more danger." He ran a finger down an abrasion on her cheek. "I've done enough damage already."

He climbed off the bike, so she got off too. Sam went to the saddlebags and opened the one with the cash. He reached in, grabbed a fistful of stacks, and handed them to her. Araceli stared at the money in shock.

"Take it, please," he smiled gently. "Buy yourself a really good car this time, get your mother the best birthday present ever, and go to that music concert you talked about. Make life a little more fun."

"Do you...realize how much that is?" she gawked.

Sam eyeballed the stacks of hundreds. "Fifty or sixty grand?"

She laughed that he could say it so easily. "I can't take that!"

Sam grabbed her hand, flipped it over, and put the money into it. One stack fell to the street. He leaned over and plopped it on top. "My way of saying thanks for saving my life. You deserve more, but I probably need money to buy off people where I'm going."

A single tear ran down her blushing face. She gave him a peck on the cheek and put the bills in her purse for the moment. Out from the purse she pulled a paper napkin and a pen. She jotted down something, then gave it to him.

"The phone number to a cousin in Mexico. He can help you out, and...and maybe if you ever find some peace in life, he can put you in contact with me."

Sam was about to turn down that offer, but the door to the house opened just then.

"Araceli?" an elderly woman cried out.

She turned, and for a moment Sam saw the excitement on her face. "Mama!" Then she turned back to him, and now her eyes were shining with gratitude. "Thank you so much!"

Al puffed happily on his cigar and bounced on his heels in satisfaction. "Kiss her and ride into the sunset, Sam."

No need for prompting there! Sam wrapped Araceli into his arms and gave her kiss he hoped she would remember. Then with her face still dazed and happy, he gave a cool smile, a tip of the head, and straddled the bike.

"It was fun traveling with you, Señorita Araceli de la Rosa. _Adiós_."

With a gentle roar from the bike, he rolled away just as Araceli's parents ran into the middle of the road and greeted their daughter with hugs and kisses. Sam headed the bike away from the peaceful street and back toward the highway.

"Such a shame," Al lamented, hovering just behind Sam. "Gorgeous girl! It would've been fun, taking her along with you, two infatuated adventurers riding through the Mexican wilderness."

"I'm just happy to have helped her out," Sam smiled to himself. "So, what becomes of her?"

Al entered data into the hand link. "Ah, nice! She takes the money you just gave her, buys a Harley _and_ a station wagon, buys front row tickets to see her idol, the singer Selena, and...oh wow," he pouted. "It's a good thing she did, because that was the last televised concert Selena performed before she was killed on March 31st, 1995, a little over a month from now. Damn! Araceli was one of the first to make a hefty donation to the Selena Foundation to help children in crisis. She even provided a large wreath for the funeral. She worked for her brother for a few months, then took the remainder of the money to go to college. She's currently attending Texas Aaa...ayyy...ayan" He whacked the hand link for good measure. "...A&M! Texas A&M University, where...hah, get this," he laughed. "She's studying law with the aspirations of becoming a lawyer. So far, she's top in her class, and she'll be taking the Texas bar exam in July, so things look optimistic for her."

"That's great," Sam smiled. He looked at the phone number in his hand. "Someone like Theodore Nyt, some sleezeball lawyer who probably doesn't deserve a second chance, he's not good for someone like Araceli. She's the sort of girl who deserves much better."

Sam released the napkin and let the number fly away with the wind. The Harley continued onward, taking him closer to his final goal: the Mexican border.

**End of Chapter 23**

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><p><em>AN: Only one more chapter to go. Yay! I should hurry up and finish it so I stop feeling guilty about leaving everyone hanging._


	24. Wards of Time

_"Through memory we travel against time, through forgetfulness we follow its course." - Joseph Joubet_

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><p>Chapter 24<p>

**Wards of Time**

Sam continued on his way in preparation for the dangerous illegal border crossing. Al guided him to the streets they needed to take, to Woodrow Bean Transmountain Drive, which turned into Purple Heart Memorial Highway. This took them away from the traffic of El Paso. They went southeast, then curved again as the road turned into Joe Battle Blvd. It was a desolate place, and they saw signs of border guards along the way.

"Unfortunately for us," Al explained, "Operation Hold The Line has made crossing in El Paso tough. So we go to the worse, most dangerous area to cross, nothing but desert, so it's harder to patrol. Mr. Nyt was smart when he bought all those water jugs."

Sam only half listened as Al read off from Ziggy about crossing the desert. For some reason, he was remembering that day in the university, the student who rose and questioned him about the morality of time travel. He had been giving Father Time the middle finger for so long, he wondered if all of this, being trapped in the past, Leaping from life to life, was some sort of payback.

Was this his punishment for going against the Wards of Time?

"Well, just keep on this road," Al told Sam. "It'll be a couple hours, and no offense, but my head is still really hurting with all this sunlight." He opened the Imaging Chamber door and mumbled as he walked out, "I hope Doctor Beeks has something stronger." Then the door slammed shut.

Sam was left alone with his thoughts. He wondered what Theodore Nyt would do in Mexico. He wondered if he would leave Araceli alone. He hoped so. The future Al claimed she would have sounded enjoyable.

He also wondered just how far into this border-crossing he would have to go? Would he Leap the minute he stepped foot into Mexico? Did he have to cross the desert and get to civilization? Just how long would this Leap last? He was still in a lot of pain from his shoulder, the broken rib, the fingernail the Mafia goons had ripped out, and the gunshot wound. He didn't dare take any of the Vicodin he had, not with all the driving he had to do. He hoped the suffering was almost over.

Minutes ticked by with only the passing of sagebrushes marking any sort of tempo. The road was hypnotic without Al there to talk to him or Araceli's scent to distract him. Sam began to hum to himself. After an hour, that McDonald's lunch suddenly hit him. There were no buildings to be seen, so he pulled over to the side of the road to relieve nature.

Just as he was finishing up and walking back to the bike, Sam felt a crack against his head, fell to the ground, and saw a looming shadow just as darkness edged in on him.

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><p>It felt colder. He was inside a building, and the light coming from a cracked window showed it was late in the day. Sam shook the pain out of his head. He saw the hit man named Tony the Chopper laying unconscious next to him. He scrambled away from him fast.<p>

"Oh, don't worry," came a soothing voice. "You're safe now. Got to you just barely in time. He won't wake up until long after we're gone, and according to what we know, he'll be dead by the end of the day for failing to get you."

Sam looked up to Latino features, a man dressed trim and clean shaved, but with a scar on his chin. He had long hair streaked with a few threads of silver and pulled back in a slicked ponytail.

Familiar!

"Do I...know you?" he asked haltingly.

"You do, and you don't...yet."

Sam rubbed his head. Out the window, the sun had turned the sky a bruised purple. The tops of the thunderheads already showed pink with their tops still a fluffy white. His time was running out.

"You don't have to worry about the mission," the stranger assured. Sam jolted at that, but the man had a placid smile. "Originally, you never did make it to Mexico. We've been working on this problem for decades, but it never worked out. This time, it should. Actually," he laughed, "we reverted to your own tactics...refined with my theories, if I may say so." He gave a modest laugh.

"Theories? Tactics?" asked Sam. Just how hard had he hit his head?

"I'll get this sleazy lawyer across the border, I promise. We've already been assured at 100% that he'll survive this time around. Theodore Nyt will live a wonderfully splurged life in Mexico constantly looking over his shoulder in terror and suffering from ulcers. Not what Nyt deserves, in my opinion. Then again, who am I to determine his fate?"

"Fate?" Sam asked in a daze. His head hurt. Was this man even making sense? Was it just him and his aching head?

"He marries a don's younger daughter and has three children, one of whom grows up to be a programmer on my own Project Continuum Leap. Quite a brilliant girl. Makes me wonder if some of your intelligence stayed behind. So yep, he will surely survive."

"Wait, what? Project Continuum? Like continuum theory?" Sam asked in confusion.

"You have no idea how hard it is to track you down, Doctor Beckett," the man said conversationally.

That name stunned Sam. His name.

_My own name!_

"All this Leaping around, here, there, all over the space-time continuum like a jack rabbit. Plus the physical traveling. You really get to see the world, don't you? It's taken me ten tries over the years until we centered in on Mister Nyt, same host we tried the first time...oh, I forget how many years back. Probably only a few hours ago to you. My colleagues tease me that I'm stalking you, but I'm glad we finally caught up again."

"Again?" Sam asked. Obviously, this stranger knew he was Sam Beckett, and he knew something about Project Quantum Leap. Where was this man familiar from? Was it another hole in his memory? The fogginess of pain made his own words sound like noise coming through cotton wadding.

The man only smiled. "At least this proves my theory on tracking the spacial coordinates of space-time anomalies. I couldn't have done all this without your research, Doctor Beckett. And now, I want to prove your own test, and the retrieval program your crew later invented but never got to use." He laughed blithely. "It better work, or that old hag Tina is gonna flay my hide. For your own sake, I hope it works in your time, so I can come to know you in my time." Then he looked at his watch. "And talking about time, time's up. I hope to catch up with you again..._some time_." He chuckled at his own joke. "Before you leave, I just wanted to tell you, of all the theses you've written, _Wards of Time_ was far and away my favorite. I was still in college when I read it, and it spurred me on in this field. I'm honored that you took my question seriously."

"Question?"

Suddenly, the face came to him.

The student at a lecture who asked if time travel was a middle finger to Father Time.

Sancho from Carrizozo.

Doctor Sanchez.

The immigrant at the McDonald's.

Different ages, but all had the same looks to them.

"Sancho...Sanchez...?"

"Doctor Sancho Faramundo Alejandro Sanchez-Hernandez, at your service," he smiled. "And a pleasure to meet you, Doctor Samuel Beckett."

This man was not only a Leaper, but he was _physically_ there. What had he said about reverting to his own tactics...to Leaping into a person? "Continuum Leap! Not a minimal amount of interaction by means of observation but...but full interaction. _Physical_ interaction."

"Leaping body _and_ aura," Doctor Sanchez nodded. "You unintentionally almost did it, Doctor Beckett, but you were attempting something far more elementary. Your body and aura sundered, and your retrieval program was incomplete, since you were not aiming for full-body acceleration. Perhaps with a couple more years, you would have discovered the exact same thing I did. If this works, perhaps you'll change my timeline, return home, and get a chance to perfect the program. I don't mind if my past is changed, so long as it means that you get to go back home to those who love you. With any luck, we'll work together on something greater. That's my prayer."

"You...you're planning to Leap...into _me_?"

"Into Theodore Nyt," Sancho Sanchez corrected. "See, in my time, you died on this Leap and never made it home. I've been struggling to correct that, but three times now, although I fixed the error, something else happened, and you still died. My colleagues said that maybe God wanted you to die, but I refused to believe that, because every time I traveled back, my goal worked. You survived. Be it freeing you from a Mafia torture house, or healing your gunshot wounds, I succeeded. But this time, you were captured right on the verge of success. I'm not taking any more chances," he said adamantly. "Like what you did, I'm throwing myself into the fray, just to prove my theory. Using your calculations and the 'caca' mistake that spurred my research, I can Leap into you—body only, not the aura—and you'll either Leap home, with all luck, or continue Leaping, hopefully without any more trouble. Otherwise," Sancho laughed, "I may spend my whole life chasing you down and correcting your mistakes, one Leap at a time."

"Why?" asked Sam. Could this man truly be a Leaper from his future? Someone inspired by him? Someone in the future...working to get him home!

"Why? Because I admire you, Doctor Beckett," he answered as if it was obvious. "Maybe I can't play God and get you home all on my own—there's a theory that only you can bring yourself home—but my goal was merely to give you better odds, a chance of survival, so that you can decide for yourself what your fate should be." He looked up at nothing. "All right, Triggy, let's do this!" Sancho dipped his head in respect. "Until we meet again, Dr. Beckett."

He saw the man in front of him light up in a blue flash and sparkling energy, the distinct sound of the rending of time and separating bodies from their auras. Sam was stunned beyond all rationalization. Was this what he looked like? Was this a Leap?

As he felt the tingle begin in his own body, Sam could think of only one thing to say.

"Oh, boy!"

**The End**

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><p><em>AN: Well, that's it. Good twist? Maybe it didn't end with the bang I was hoping for, but at least it's completed. I'm happy everything tied together so well._

_I tend to obsess with names. Araceli means "altar of heaven" and "de la Rosa" means "of the rose," invoking beauty and mystery. Theodore means "God's gift," as in Sam's bouncing around time is God/Time/Fate/Whatever's gift to those who didn't live as good of a life as they were meant. Nyt isn't a real surname as far as I know, but it's a play on the words "night" (as in "Desert Night," this story's title) and "knight" (the idea that Sam is a knight errant). This was inspired by my husband saying Sam Beckett is like Michael Knight from "Knight Rider," one man out to help those who no one else is willing to protect.__ Minus the awesome car!__ That's also why I referenced "Knight Rider" in Theodore Nyt's law practice with his wife, Nyt-Ryder._

_Sancho's full name was the best. Sancho Faramundo Alejandro Sanchez-Hernandez means "sacred" "journey protection" "defender of mankind" "son of the sanctified one" "son of the bold voyager." I wanted to evoke the idea of one man journeying into the unknown on a sacred quest to save others; in this case, save Sam from what in his timeline was a terrible death. Plus I like that his name is Sancho Sanchez, since Sanchez means "son of Sancho." It's like someone named John Johnson (don't laugh, I have a friend named that)._

_Thank you **wtchcool** and **LA Suka** for reviewing so frequently. I enjoyed chatting with you and getting ideas. And thanks to my husband, who caught all sorts of misspellings and grammar issues, as well as encouraging me to finish this before 2012._

_I hope you enjoyed this little journey. Everyone who reads this, either following my updates or randomly clicking on it in the future... thanks! It was a lot of fun to write. Let me know if you liked it, and I hope I can write more stories in the future._

_This is Rhov, signing off!  
><em>


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